Moments of Elegance
by twilightmask
Summary: Drabbles on various moments between Sherlock and John, noted from 3rd person and from either perspective. Friendship based, however some hints of slash may shine through at points along with a bit of light humor.
1. Medically Speaking

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Medically Speaking**

It was a warm summery afternoon. A hazy glow seeped into the London flat, making John's eyes feel heavy with fatigue. It was almost completely silent… except for one, extremely bothersome detective. He glanced up from his paper for the fifth time, sighing.

"What is it now?" He asked, irritated. There was a sudden prick on his finger, and he yelped slightly. The prick mark swelled up with blood, turning puffy and red.

"Ow! What in bloody hell was **THAT** for?" Even more irked than earlier, John scowled unhappily, as he saw Sherlock swipe some of the blood from his finger.

"Well, I needed to get your attention so that I could draw your blood properly." The lanky young man justified, sitting himself down in front of his desk with a glint of triumph in his eyes.

"Sherlock, that was hardly conventional! You're supposed to warn me before you do anything like that to me!" John shot back angrily. Sherlock glanced up, surprised, feeling his desk shake with the register of the doctor's voice.

"I hardly knew that you would throw such a fit…" He muttered, turning back to focus on his minuscule chemical reactions in his Petri dishes.

"Why wouldn't I when you're using my blood for whatever bloody experiment you're conducting?" John threw his hands up in the air and turned on his heel sharply, licking his pricked pointer finger.

"But you're the only B positive I know!"

Silence.

"Oh come now, we both know that you're annoyed about something else." Sherlock called after him, still not taking his eyes away from the microscope.

"Shut up! I am **not** going to talk to you right now…" The shorter man grumbled, as he affixed a small, Disney Princesses' bandage on his wound.

Sherlock sighed at this. For a military doctor, John could be quite reluctant to make a minor sacrifice for science or medicine. Always complaining about one thing or another… Sherlock was actually a very meticulous and tidy character. Why John doubted him so was puzzling. Of course he would use sterilized needles and such. That was practical knowledge. Certain little health or safety precautions Sherlock could ignore or bypass at times, but he would only do that if the experiment was be done solely by himself. He would never put the dear doctor's health at risk… his own health was quite a different story.

It was actually quite ironical, Sherlock mused, tapping his silver pen on the table.

"Did you get the mail?"

_What a dull question._

"No."

"Typical…" John muttered to himself, "Well, I'm off to the doctor's anyways, so I'll bring it up when I get back." He pulled a small, brown coat over his shoulders, and for some reason, felt Sherlock staring at his back. John uncomfortably turned around.

"Well, what is it now?" He replied to the blank expression on Sherlock's face, feeling a migraine approaching rapidly.

"Nothing… I'm just contemplating why a doctor, such as yourself, would need to visit another doctor for check-ups."

_Oh, here we go again._

"I can't prescribe medicine to myself or keep a proper medical record for myself. It's not allowed because…" The military man tried to explain himself, but he paused, seeing it as pointless. All he really wanted was attention.

Sherlock pressed on, "Alright, but why not? I don't see the point in being this circumstantial. All these doctors needing separate doctors for themselves? Is it another one of those social standards I'm so unaccustomed to? I mean, really, it makes no sense?"

"Good grief, Sherlock! Thank you for questioning something so unnecessarily. You really are a great intellectual." John sarcastically commented, trying to slip down the flat's steps quickly while avoiding further conversation.

"You're right, John. Your uppity and cultured society must know so much more than me!" Sherlock called back, in an equally sarcastic tone, following the poor doctor. John stood at the bottom of the stairwell, staring up at the brilliant detective tiredly. The sun shone brightly behind the tall man's figure, and it almost made him look…"godly" was probably the proper word for it, but it just made John snicker, as he shot back,

"At least they know that the earth goes 'round the sun…!"

"I swear, if you bring that up again, you can say goodbye to that lovely sweater Sarah bought you recently." Sherlock threatened him in the darkest voice he could produce, his eyes flashing angrily under the shadows of his face.

John merely rolled his eyes, "Oh dear, please halt the immature antics."

"I could say the same for your sarcastic tones."

"Look, the government doesn't want me prescribing procaine and morphine or something like that because that's illegal." John rubbed his forehead. Why did he always end up engaging in these arguments and explanations? What good or reward came from it? He was just helping feed into Sherlock's relief from boredom. He was obviously aware of doctors, doctor appointments, drugs, and all of that, anyhow.

"Well, that would've been particularly helpful for my thinking and deductive skills during a difficult case."

"But I don't want to supply you with drugs either, Sherlock."

"But the fact is that you could…!" Sherlock insisted persistently.

"No, I'm done with this conversation! You're absolutely mental!" John replied, exasperated and running late for his check-up.

"You are incredibly uptight today."

"I. Have. A. Doctor's. Appointment."

"Yes, I'm not stupid, John." Sherlock muttered testily, "What's bothering you again?"

"Nothing. Shut up."

"Right. Of course. As always. Brilliant conclusion."

John ran out of the door of the complex, refusing to continue the conversation.

"Pick up some marijuana, John!" The detective yelled after the shorter man. He sighed and gave a surprised glance to his left when he heard Mrs. Hudson's faint, little gasp.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson! Nothing out of the ordinary." Sherlock tried to reassure the frightened old woman and convince her that there was no need to call the Scotland Yard on him…again…

"Oh, Sherlock! I do hope you haven't reverted to more drugs, now!" She complained doubtfully.

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson. It was merely a pointless argument. I was trying to get a dry point across to the stubborn doctor." The detective cleared his throat and adjusted his two-button coat. Mrs. Hudson still refused to believe Sherlock, and she scurried back into her own room, muttering something about Sherlock and his oddities in a tired tone. Sherlock slyly grinned and pulled a hand through his mussed hair.

"I rather prefer nicotine!" He clarified out loud, running back up the stairs into his flat, as he heard Mrs. Hudson gasp again, rather loudly this time.

"Oh, Sherlock! How does the poor doctor deal with you?"

**AN: Hey, what's up, hello there. Since this is going to be a series of drabbles, I might as well warn you all that it will be incredibly random, will venture into made-up territories, and will have various types of situations. They will mostly be unrelated, but when some are, I'll tell you all.**

**I absolutely love BBC's depiction of Sherlock and John, and I really wanted to try out a drabblish type thing with them. I don't know how many I want to do, so if you could review and leave some random number along with it, I'd greatly appreciate it. I'll try to update frequently, since summer is upon us in the US.**

**Thanks so much, and I hope you enjoyed this little chapter and what will come in the future!**

**- TM**

**(PS: If any of you watch Doctor Who as well, OHMYGOSH, RIVER SONG'S IDENTITY. I'M SPAZZING.)**


	2. Overlooked Logic

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Overlooked Logic**

"Have Forensics checked the body yet?"

"No…"

"Good!" Sherlock bent down next to the lifeless figure that sat in the large seat.

"I'm assuming that you've already figured out fifty different things about this man, eh?" Lestrade sighed, half-jokingly, half tiredly. Sometimes it was difficult working with such a brilliant man. One that pick-pocketed as well, no less. Most thought it made work incredibly easy, but it was quite the reverse.

"Mm, close, Detective Inspector. Fifty two." Sherlock muttered, as he checked the man's gloved hands.

"Great, well do they lead to a conclusion?"

"Of course." A hint of sarcasm lined the first response, "Do you also see that this man is not breathing? And do you also know that it means he is dead?" Sherlock continued wittily, still not looking up from the dead body.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Thank you for clarifying that for me."

"You're welcome." Sherlock stood up and brushed off dust from his long, dark coat. Lestrade kept silent this time, as Sherlock proceeded to pacing back and forth. He gave John, who was silently shaking his head, an aside glance.

"Well, it's a very typical murder." Sherlock broke the silence.

"Thank you, genius!"

"Anderson, what the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock snapped coldly, whipping his head around. His analytical, blue eyes narrowed sharply.

"Forensics wants to run some tests on the victim's skin."

"We already know who he is and all of that nonsense! And we certainly don't need any pointless tests about DNA or other such frivolous things."

"Correction, you do, not everybody else."

Sherlock stepped over to the stubborn scientist, "If you want to keep what miniscule amount of hubris you have and that incredibly dull head on your shoulders, I suggest you leave."

"Oh, I'm shivering right now!"

"As you should. My skull is getting quite lonely anyhow…"

Anderson scoffed and jeered mockingly at the last statement, however he did take Sherlock's warning and left relatively promptly afterwards. Sherlock gave Lestrade a miffed look, but the Detective Inspector purposefully glanced away.

"Hm, I didn't know this was going to be a frat boy's party, as well. Have we got enough idiocy in the room to settle everybody down now?"

"Sherlock…" John whispered warningly.

"As I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted," Sherlock went on, "…gloved hands, clearly a problem in this sunny, unconventional London weather. So, where would one be able to wear gloves outside? The shipyard is our best guess considering its vicinity and everything we note about his physicality and tanned face. Who would be vengeful to a shipyard man? Someone who has a ship, obviously. Recently, there was a report of South American jewels from an American museum being shipped over for inspection. Taking this into account, and the man's drinking problem and economic state, we can therefore conclude that this man has stolen at least one of those said jewels. Having no place to run to relatively soon after committing the crime, he ran into his room along the shipyard's housing strip…"

"Isn't this all just speculation though?"

"John, hush." Sherlock revealed a bright, glittery jewel from his coat pocket.

Lestrade gaped, "Now, when did that get there? Were you even planning on telling us you had that at some point?" He croaked.

"Isn't that what I'm trying to do right now, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock responded, irritated. Lestrade pressed his lips together and gave Sherlock a stern glare.

"Goodness knows you should be aware of my methods by now." He sniffed.

"Hardly."

"Anyways, as I was saying, the jewel was placed in the inconspicuous hole around the back of this bungalow and covered with dirt." He illustrated his point by taking a long, slender finger of his and wiping the grime off the precious stone in a straight line. John recalled the previously worthless stroll Sherlock had taken around the house, coming back with his gloves slightly dirtied.

He hadn't even taken notice of it until now…

"Quite an obvious hiding place, really. So now we approach the question of why the culprits did not retrieve the jewel. Two possible explanations are present for us. One being that the culprits either did not have the time to look for it, being as strangers to Mr. Goldberg, the name being as stated on his papers in this drawer…" Sherlock motioned to the nearby desk.

John kept blinking, still in awe of his flatmate's amazing deductive and inductive reasoning. No matter how many cases they solved together, he would always be impressed by the amount of things that Sherlock could discover within a few minutes in a room alone.

"…Now there's also the possibility that the culprits were in cohorts with Mr. Goldberg, this possibility being far more understandable and probable, in my dignified opinion…"

John frowned, the look ignored by the detective.

"Perhaps they were all in on stealing the jewels, and they are all shipyard men. I believe that something went terribly wrong within the group. Greed being an enormous factor. I will have to scour the jewel boat itself." Sherlock announced, heading for the door.

"Hold on, Sherlock! We're still trying to catch up with your logic! How on earth did you connect that South American jewels transport to him? What if he's not a shipyard man? What if we're assuming something wrong right from the start? You never think about these things!" Lestrade tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose, clearly worn out by Sherlock's long-winded explanation.

"It's quite a simple case… Elementary logic." Sherlock muttered, seeming almost annoyed.

"You know, I can't even ascertain whether or not **you **could've stolen the jewel yourself, Sherlock! You don't let anybody see you work, and nobody saw you 'find' the jewel in that 'hole'." Lestrade indirectly accused the detective. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily, before his expressions turned extremely sour.

"If you don't want my help, I could just leave. Give you the bloody jewel, and see how you do with the murder portion of it, hm? After all, I'm just a lowly, no-good, trivial jewel thief, am I not?" Sherlock scowled, thrusting the jewel into Lestrade's hands.

"Buh-uh, wait!" Lestrade stumbled for words, as he fumbled with the expensive jewel. Sherlock smirked, as he crossed his arms across his chest, walking over to the window of the room.

John sighed, speaking up for the first time in a long time, "You know what I don't get?"

Sherlock gave him an un-amused look, "John, I just outlined the whole…"

"No, it's nothing about the case. I just don't understand why there wasn't higher security or even a thought about using an airplane or something like that. It makes me wonder if there's another aspect to this case." John questioned aloud. Sherlock's face turned slightly grim, as his eyebrows narrowed in unfortunate understanding of his flatmate's point.

"Nevertheless, it is of no importance. The case sits as it is." His voice sounded defeated and flat, and it made John smile a little. Lestrade, too, shared a small grin on his face.

Sherlock glared betwixt them, "To the jewel ship, then."

**AN: No relation to the previous chapter. It seems like nobody left a number on the last chapter, so I'll ask again! :) Please review, and when you do, leave a number telling me how many of these drabbles you'd like to see from me! Have a great day. :)**

**- TM**


	3. 8 Point 5 Percent

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**8.5%**

The whine of an incredibly out-of-tune violin scratched the air of the entire flat ungratefully. John clapped his hands over both of his ears and fled into the main living place, jumping straight out of bed.

"What in the hell is going on?" The same old question was nearly memorized by the detective by now, tone and all. He could probably mimic John absolutely perfectly if he had to.

"I'm preparing to tune my violin."

"I don't know what you're talking about. It sounded just **fine **five minutes ago." John's leveled tone wasn't able to masquerade the bubbling anger that settled in his deep set wrinkles, caused in part by this constant charade.

"It goes out of tune quite regularly." Sherlock responded with an apathetic expression on his pallid face.

"I'm sure, Sherlock…" John muttered with a bit of a scowl.

He was particularly grumpy, today…again. Just as he had been this whole week. Purely grumpy. Partially due to having been woken at this ungodly hour of three in the morning, but more because of his recent encounter with Sarah. He had thought that things were going swimmingly, however Sarah had been becoming increasingly reluctant to have John do anything with or for her. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, as if expecting someone else or shooing him off at the most bizarre times.

Yesterday, they had planned to go out to the park after work, but John had waited at the park for over an hour, with no sight of her. She sent a text two hours after the supposed date time saying she had some extra cases she had to address and that she was terribly sorry, but she was going to be less and less free for outings.

Bull.

She was probably off snogging some suave, slick haired, dark eyed man after-hours. Probably off laughing at what a fool the gullible doctor was. Probably sleeping over at that seductive man's flat for more than just a nice cup of afternoon tea…

John took out some scones and toasted them before spreading a thin coat of butter and jam on them. Food always seemed to comfort him. It was a bad, bad liking, but it was inevitable. It wasn't going to be long before John realized a little extra weight or something of that despicable nature.

"Would you like one, Sherlock?"

A bright sound rang from his violin, as he responded, "Just tea for me, thanks."

"You should really eat more."

"Is this coming from a doctor or a pointlessly concerned friend?"  
>"Does that really matter?" John groaned, giving the arrogant violinist a prepared scone anyways. His nerves were calmed in a way though. John had groan to find safety in the knowledge that he could always argue with Sherlock without things becoming rough between them. It was nice to know that somebody was still a friend…sort of.<p>

Sherlock frowned, sipping his tea silently, his long fingers wrapped around the warm middle of the cup.

"I don't like to be stopped in the middle of my practice session." He stated stiffly. Although John would challenge the use of the word "practice" at this moment, he kept his mouth shut and nibbled at his scone.

"I was preparing for a seven minute aria, you know."

"Well, that seems like a short piece."

"John, a seven minute or longer piece is considered pretty long." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, a sly smirk upon his thin lips, getting back at him for the scone in a way.

"I see. I'm sorry for my lack of knowledge in the area of music." He rolled his soft, grey-blue eyes quickly and turned his beloved attention away from the proud detective. Sherlock sat there silently, noticing something off about the doctor, once again.

"John, are you feeling quite alright? You look on edge. Is something bothering you?"

"Ah, now is this coming from an astute detective or a mildly concerned friend?"

Sherlock frowned, "Don't play games with me, John. Something has been seriously wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, Sherlock." John lied.

"Hm, lying will do you no good. But if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'll find out one way or another." Sherlock leaned back in a comfy chair, smirking all the while. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, plotting another way to get John flustered.

It was a naughty past-time of his.

But it seemed to prove useful when trying to extract information from the surprisingly tight-lipped military doctor. Gladstone barked sharply, reprimanding Sherlock for thinking about mentally sabotaging his master. The dog could sense John's breaking subconscious state and growled at Sherlock, warning him.

Sherlock threw a look of disgust, "Tell that mutt to stop getting all noisy and bothersome!"

"Gladstone is a living, breathing being. You need to treat her as such!" John retorted.

"It's a bloody dog!" Sherlock seethed.

"Well, in all honesty, you act just like Gladstone. Whining, barking, growling, sniffing dead things…" John rattled off some canine behavioral traits. Sherlock simmered in silent anger to being compared to something so stupid. He held his tongue for his "dear" friend, though.

"That's a horrible analogy, John."

"The least I require is for you to merely accept my observation as somewhat veritable." John's eyes peered over the rim of his cup, seeing the slouched detective grumble. He smiled affectionately, finding it funny to see him in such an immature state. It took his mind off of the whole Sarah business, too.

"I agree with only 8.5% of your rude statement. And that's including prepositions and such."

"Fine by me."

**AN: The only affiliation for this bit is to the first chapter when something is bothering John.**

**Please don't forget to review/comment! It means the world to me~ And so many of you put me on story alert and such! :) A reviewer suggested that I do 10, so for right now I'll stick by that.**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**- TM**


	4. When John decided to be Difficult

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**When John decided to be Difficult**

Sherlock wasn't the type for outdoor activities. In fact, he'd rather be sitting indoors watching one of those pointless American cop dramas that John adored to watch.

But no. Today, John had to be difficult.

And he had no idea as to why he agreed to come along or even let John drag his unwilling self all the way to this stupid biking shop.

"Oh come on, you never do anything for me anyhow!" John had complained.

"You're probably out of shape!" He had further insulted.

Perhaps John's persistence had just, unfortunately, gotten the better of him, today. Sherlock swore that he would never ever let his guard down when John next uttered the words, "I'm bored!" And he vowed that if he got down this bloody massive hill all in one piece, that he was sleeping outside the flat instead, tonight…

"Sherlock! Pay attention! Follow me!" John called out to Sherlock's gloomy figure, slumped over the small frame of the bicycle. The past week had been all cloud-free and absolutely gorgeous, complete contrary to normal dark and rainy London weather. John wasn't about to let this, one out of a million opportunities to do something outside, go. He was actually quite surprised that the frequently grumpy detective had agreed to come along.

Although there had been some guilt-tripping on John's part, he was still, nonetheless, amused.

"You do know that you picked the worst outdoor activity to do, right?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Says who? Everybody loves a good bike ride!"

"Not me!"

"You're clearly not everybody."

"And you clearly shouldn't be making assumptions."

John rolled his eyes, but he was smiling nonetheless, "Only a little further!" He coaxed. He noted Sherlock's visible huff and his reluctant pedaling down a particularly steep part of their bicycle ride. John rather loved the scenery of England's countryside. It was a breath of fresh air from the up-and-busy London atmosphere. He felt that Sherlock deserved a little, albeit forced, break.

Sherlock shook uncontrollably, as he forced the break on the bicycle far too many times. It was a bumpy descent, but a safe descent, and for that, Sherlock was incredibly relieved.

"You probably could've gotten much more hurt that way." John lightly pointed out.

"No, it was perfectly controlled."

"If you push down on the break too intensely, the bicycle will just tip over! It's meant to go more than .01 miles an hour." The dirty blonde haired man teased, leaning on the handlebars of his own bike, breathing in the clean environment around him. Sherlock gave a distasteful look towards the doctor, but he attempting to relax himself.

He was really only here because Sarah wasn't here to fill in for a companion at this very moment.

That girl really was a dull, scatter-brained dunce of a human being. Why John wasted such precious amounts of time on her from the beginning, Sherlock would never know. John seemed to just naturally be the loyal type. He would constantly wait around for Sherlock, chase him down the busy nighttime streets, make him tea when necessary… More like Gladstone than he was, for sure.

It was only fair, however, to pay him back for his eternal kindness, though.

"I'll have you know that I'm never doing this again."

"Okay."

"I'm only doing it because you **persuaded **me into doing so."

"I'm aware of that."

"I feel very sorry for you."

"Thank you for your immense sympathies."

Sherlock made a face.

John smirked, "Come on, now. There are still so many other places I want to show you!"

"Oh, no you don't." Sherlock huffed, "We're going right back, right now."

"You're no fun." John rolled his eyes.

"Hm, and this is your idea of fun? Some sort of masochistic idea of riding down a precarious hill on a wimpy, ratty old bicycle? Scraping death's scythe? **That's **your idea of 'fun'?"

"Sherlock, I think you're taking bike riding a little too seriously…"

"I am not. I'm taking this physically demanding sport into the proper mindset."

John smiled a small, insignificant smile, more amused than annoyed at this point in time, "Bike riding isn't too physically demanding. You just have to be able to let go of your rigid mind…literally letting the bicycle take you down hills while you merely steer and pedal at the appropriate times."

The reluctant detective seemed to be staring into the ground, pouting, hoping that somehow the hills would flatten themselves out automatically. John watched him fluff his hair with his long fingers, and he broke out into more smiles, much to Sherlock's dismay.

"Of all the times to be smiling at my pain; really, John, you must be sadistic **and **masochistic."

"Call it what you like, but I like to call it 'living'." The small man pushed off the brake and began whizzing down the next hill, letting the air ruffle through

Sherlock sighed, muttering to himself, "Well, then go do your 'living' without having to drag me along…"

He then took a deep breath in and followed John's advice by awkwardly forcing himself to pedal faster down the hill. Carefully, he applied the break and steered the bicycle gently down the winding path. Despite the beauty of the nature around him, his eyes were fixated on the dusty dirt in front of him, refusing to waver. John had to ring his bicycle bell repeatedly to prevent Sherlock from crashing into him.

"We're here!" He cheerfully announced, hopping of his bike and running up a particularly grassy slope. His arms were filled with a heavy, wood-weaved basket and a thick, checkered blanket, yet he managed to run with a good speed.

Sherlock set down his bicycle and groaned, "Hooray…"

He followed the small man to a little shady area under a large tree's branches. Sherlock's eyes were skeptical, as John spread out the blanket and then proceeded to take prepared foods out of his basket.

"Hm, I see you've tricked me into coming along with you for a picnic, as well." Sherlock tapped his chin in thought with a bit of amusement glinting in his expressions.

"Ah, well I wouldn't say 'tricked' per se…"

"Just not properly informed, I suppose." Sherlock shrugged and took a seat next to the doctor, "I don't mind. As long as I'm off that dreadful bicycle…"

John's peal of laughter made the detective feel a little uncomfortable, but he managed to smile awkwardly, at least content with having made John happier.

John had been terribly upset at the turnout of his relationship with Sarah. It had just so happened that his hunches were right. She was meeting another person, and she eventually broke it to the doormat of a man. Of course, there had been the regular spiel of it "not being his fault" and all of that, but she had uncovered her true intentions for breaking it off with John.

She had been incredibly jealous of Sherlock.

John had nearly broken out into uncontrollable laughter, but seeing as it was a completely inappropriate moment, he abstained from doing so. It wasn't too surprising, though. Most people did think that the two of them were involved. To be honest to himself, he did find an affectionate feel towards the quirky detective, but it certainly wasn't anything romantic.

Despite his attempts to explain his living conditions and relationship with Sherlock, Sarah simply wouldn't have it. She was much too afraid of the all too possible possibility of an intimate relationship between the two men. It was a little depressing and offensive, but it was enlightening at the same time.

_A possible relationship with the stoic detective?_

John bit into his sandwich.

_Humorous but impossible._

Sherlock swatted some ants away.

_They were just flat-mates._

John watched as Sherlock went off to investigate where the ant hill was.

…

_Right?_

**AN: A little bit more slash towards the end, but it's only hinted. :) I can't help it. Sherlock and John are too cute together~ The only relation this chapter has to others is the whole Sarah problem again.**

**Please don't forget to review/comment! Sherlock might try biking again, if you do! :) **

**- TM**


	5. To Objectify You

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**To Objectify You**

John clicked the doorknob and entered his office, yawning. What a simple and utterly boring morning it had been. He had hoped to be enticed in some sort of crazy antics Sherlock might've thought up, but he had been fully disappointed. The detective had taken a short notice of a case and was somewhere in the mountains of the Himalayas.

Why he chose the most extreme cases, John would never know.

He had left a most amusing, unconventional note, however:

_Dear John,_

_I am going to be out of the country for a little bit (the Himalaya Mountains, actually) on a bit of an interesting case. I have a few things that I need you to prepare for me before my return home, though._

_I need (you better write this down because I swear you will lose this note):_

_two boxes of non-powdered, latex gloves_

_a bunch of new Petri dishes (twenty sounds about good)_

_a steel nail clipper_

_a "babushka" doll about fifteen centimeters high_

_a new Celestron 44345 Deluxe LCD Digital microscope (look on Amazon or something if you can't find it in the laboratory's catalogue)_

_three celery sticks_

_a Valentine's Day card (I know it is past the date, but I am sure you can find it somewhere)_

_Exactly everything listed above. No changes, no substitutes, nothing like that. I trust that you know me well enough that you can decide things such as colour, so I took the liberty of keeping that up to your decision._

_Seeing as I am going to be in the Himalayas for a while, if anything comes up with Lestrade or the police, tell them I am busy._

_AT ALL COSTS DO NOT TELL THEM I AM IN THE HIMALAYAS._

_For my own reasons._

_If you need anything from the Himalayas, send me a line. I will be using my email frequently for this case. I doubt you will need anything, but I never know with you, John._

_Keep safe, so I do not have to fly all the way back to England for you._

_Sincerely,_

_SH_

John really wanted to take the advantage of having Sherlock in such a wonderful mountain range, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of a thing he wanted from the Himalayan Mountains.

He felt as though snow was an inadequate answer.

Sherlock would probably click his tongue in disappointment or shake his head with a smirk on his devious lips. Either or, it would be embarrassing to choose a stupid request.

Maybe he'd ask for a little trinket or handicraft from Tibet or Nepal.

John wished that he had been able to come along, but their flat did need to be tended to. He could only imagine Mrs. Hudson's distress, if she found out that they hadn't paid their rent or cleaned up the flat due to an escape to the mountains of the Himalayas. Certainly unacceptable.

Nevertheless, it was exciting to have such opportunities. Although he wasn't going with Sherlock to the Himalayas, there had been plenty of other times where he had tagged along. He was able to see the beauty of Spain, the jungles of South America, the rudeness of American society… There were so many things that he had been blessed with after having left Afghanistan and the army. Sure, initially he had pined to rejoin the army, but now?

He couldn't dream of being without Sherlock by his side.

An odd bond had developed between the two. It had, at first, been out of necessity. He needed a flat; Sherlock needed a flat-mate. A simple do up. But things had become radically different. Sherlock no longer relied on him merely for his half of the rent, but also to keep him from going absolutely insane.

Not that he was already a little bit mental.

But really because without someone to consult with or someone to talk to, Sherlock had confessed that it was painfully lonely. Most people tended to stay away from him because of his caustic nature, but John had not only seen that side of the detective, but also the underbelly, the unseen side.

Sherlock could actually be quite…

Sweet…?

A little awkward on the term, however all the same, it was true. There were a lot of sarcastic moments with the lanky detective, but John figured it was probably rooted back to some sort of childhood or psychological mojo that he never could really grasp. The fact that he was going to be there for Sherlock and that Sherlock was going to be there for him was good enough. Saving each others' lives, going out to eat dinner at two in the morning, racing down the streets to try to pin down a criminal… They might not have been relaxing memories, but they were a part of John and Sherlock, equally now.

He couldn't help but feel lucky for all of the wonderful experienced he had begun to share with his friend.

Friend?

Yes, well he supposed that he was allowed to call Sherlock a friend.

Colleague?

Partner?

Flat-mate?

Sure, those were all acceptable, but not the fitting tag for Sherlock.

High functioning sociopath?

Yes, that was it.

**AN: Sorry I haven't updated in a while! :( Exams and all of this AP summer work are piling on the pressure. -_-" I hope you enjoyed this short segment, and again, I'm terribly sorry for the extended wait.**

**Please don't forget to review! :) It'll brighten my spirits! And I'll remember to update sooner, as well -_-"**

**Thanks so much for reading! Hope things are well with everyone.**

**- TM**


	6. Bullet Scar

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Bullet Scar**

Sherlock was silent. In awe? In the act of being bested? In absolute and utter disbelief?

Yes, probably all of the above.

But most of all he felt guilty. Completely guilty. People always try to divert the shame and the blame away from themselves and onto others, but the detective was willingly taking every bit of every pitiful, accusatory statement directed at him. He just nodded to everybody. Nodded to Lestrade, nodded to the news reporters, even nodded to Anderson of all people. There was nothing that they could do to retrieve a "no". He refused to let anybody else give eyewitness reports or testify in his stead for the calling of his innocence. He couldn't be innocent.

He couldn't be innocent for being imperfect.

His imperfections, his worthless mistakes and mishaps…those are what had gotten him and John into this mess of events. This is what had gotten the police all frenzied. This is what had gotten the mass media, no, the world raving.

Raving about Dr. John Watson getting shot.

Raving about how the impeccably swift detective had faltered. Raving about how the police had been lackadaisical in keeping the detective away. Raving about reports that the detective was mentally insane. Raving about claims that the detective was perched and waiting for his chance to sabotage all of Britain.

Raving about his mistake.

A mistake that could not be forgotten or forgiven. Not when his partner, his only friend, was in critical condition. He didn't blame the world for picking apart his flaw. This humanistic flaw that occurred simply out of his immense hubris and ignorance. He wasn't a great crack shot like John had been in saving his life. Hell, if the steadfast man had shaky hands when shooting, he wouldn't even be here right now.

Sherlock had had more than just shaky hands, though.

A shaking consciousness. The possibility of finally ending the life of the one man that had caused a rain of fire and despair behind him, caustically burning up the rest of the world…it had faded. It had slipped all too easily out of his grasp. The bullet's destination, fleeting, missed. That slight deviation had dug the scrap metal deep into the body of another. Sherlock thanked his hands for being even more inaccurate, for the bullet did not piece the heart of any of the two, as intended.

Although a stomach wound is not much better.

As the dark man had dropped the cringing, military man and slipped through the shadows of society, into hiding, the pain of the shock of realization hadn't faded from those few seconds. Every waking moment, Sherlock felt as though a bullet was going through his own stomach, pulling out every part of him that was even closely reminiscent of human qualities, leaving an empty shell of a robot. An empty shell of a nobody.

Oh, how Sherlock just wanted to duck away from the world. How he wanted to steal John away and nurse him to life himself. To take care of everything, just the way it should've been that fateful night. There was no turning back the wheels of fate, though. They plowed their way, leaving behind a mess to rearrange. Sherlock just didn't know where to start cleaning. He felt helpless, unable, anxious… For the first time ever, the world's renowned, razor sharp detective felt….

Inferior.

Maybe this inferiority was the human half of him re-emerging. He never really did develop socially or emotionally after the age of about five. A sense of fear consistently washed over him, and he felt that his body was cold, even in the middle of the day. The police had decided to keep constant watch of the detective, for safety measures, however allowed him to visit John once a day while he stayed in the hospital, recovering. John was still in critical condition. The bullet had been removed; however the doctors told the police and Sherlock that it would take a while for him to recover. John's torso was completely wrapped up in bandages; his droopy eyes were always closed in an exhausted state. Although Sherlock could stomach a lot of blood and torture, he could only bear to be at John's side for a few minutes before feeling sick.

He cursed his weaknesses. Every single last one of them.

He vowed, every time he was by John's side, that he would correct all of his errs and become the perfect human being for him.

For his best friend.

For his blogger.

For his John Watson.

**AN: A little bit of a dreary and depressing oneshot this time around. Unrelated, once again. I updated quickly today to make up for the extended break I took for finals and other exams! :) Aren't you all proud of me, heh?**

**Please don't forget to review/comment! It'll help me get through my last round of finals this week! And I'm sure it will make Sherlock feel happier, too!**

**Thanks for reading :)**

**- TM**


	7. Schoolboys' Drama

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Schoolboys' Drama**

Everything was perfect. John had his small lunchbox with Batman on it, his new book bag, his new notebooks, his sharpened pencils… He felt his face beaming, as he walked out the door with a pat on his head from his father and a kiss on his cheek from his mother. The walk to his new secondary school wasn't very long, he had tried it out with his father a few times before today, and he had a walking buddy, Alexander, to accompany him. He eagerly waited outside Alexander's door, nearly dying to show him his dark blue book bag.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until waiting became a bit frustrating, and he soon found himself quite red in the face. He let out a huge breath of air, realizing that he had been holding his breath, and politely rung the doorbell.

A little girl called from inside, "Who is it?" She demanded.

John saw her little, brown eye glaring at him and smiled, "Hi, I'm John Watson. I'm waiting for Alexander. We're supposed to walk to school together, today."

"Alexander's sick. Good bye." She promptly ran away from the door, and left John even more upset than before. It wasn't that he was scared to walk to school by himself, but rather…

Oh well, actually he was quite scared to walk to school by himself.

Harry had prophesized that he'd be mugged because of his clean school uniform, or possibly pelted with rotten fruit because of the new book bag that he kept bragging about. All of those thoughts just made the young boy's knees knock together even harder, and he found himself unable to walk away from the front of Alexander's home.

"Go away!" The little girl piped up again, "You're weird!" Her footsteps pattered away again, and he heard her call for her mother.

He quickly took off, 'round the corner, and walked along the broken sidewalk, alone. His hands gripped the strap of his book bag so tightly, that his sweaty palms began to burn. The fear was so noticeable in his wide eyes, practically emanating from his body, that it caught the attention of a dark, mussy-haired, thin boy. His sharp eyes nearly bore holes into John's back, and John felt a mysterious tension mount. He whirled around to face the young stranger, and he felt his throat go dry.

"H-hullo." He stuttered, glancing up at the other boy, even more terrified than before.

"Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I noticed that you were scared…well, still are scared, in fact. May I ask what is troubling you?" The sudden formality of his tone of his voice shocked John a little. He was almost positive that he wasn't his age, and here this pale-faced boy was just…asking if he was okay…?

"Um, well it doesn't really matter…"

"It does, though. Your fear is so prevalent in the surrounding atmosphere, that it bothers me to try to walk to school. So, stop it." Another sudden change in tone made John stagger backwards, this time more offended than surprised.

"Excuse me, Sherlock, but that's quite rude. Now, I'm really not going to tell you what's frightening me." John tried to politely tell the know-it-all boy off.

"Hmph, doesn't make a difference to me, just stop looking like a little field mouse about to be eaten by a conniving cat." Sherlock brushed his curly locks out of his eyes, adjusted his shoulder backpack, and smoothly walked past John and his mortified face, nose slightly up in the air. John felt his hands ball into little fists, and he trembled in sudden anger.

"How _**dare **_you talk like that to me?" He screeched, causing Sherlock to glance over his shoulder, eyebrows arched up, "Who are _**you **_to think that you're above me? So what if you're older? You're just as stuck-up and obnoxious as a primary schooler! Go and whine to your mother instead, you prick!" John words tumbled out of his mouth unexpectedly, and the second he spewed them out, he wanted to stuff them back in and hide under his covers.

What naughty things he had just said!

Oh, if his father were there to hear that, he'd probably be banned from talking to anyone ever again and have to scrub his mouth with a whole bar of soap!

Sherlock chuckled, though, which caught John off-guard, "Really? Well, let's solve the problem like adults. How old are you?"

"Ten." John stated firmly, finding new self-confidence within himself.

"Ah, so then we are the same age. I don't look very old anyhow…" He clicked distastefully, "My brother Mycroft, on the other hand, looks like a fifty year old windbag."

John laughed quietly, to both of their surprises. Sherlock's mouth went from a little "o" and into a small smile quickly, however.

"What school?"

"Westminster." He stated proudly, again showing off his school uniform.

"I see. I am going there, too. We have many unknown things in common." He thoughtfully responded.

John cocked his head to the side a little, "Yes, but you're not wearing the school uniform."

"It's tacky." He shrugged his shoulders.

Silence.

John's eyes widened, "Oh…okay."

"Let's walk to school together, so that you're not afraid anymore."

"That's fine… Wait, how did you know…?" The blonde-haired boy's eyebrows wrinkled together in confusion.

Sherlock smirked, put his hands in his pockets, and continued down the sidewalk, "We better hurry up before we're late… Since you look like you seem to care about those types of things."

"Oh my gosh!" John took off into a sprint, leaving Sherlock behind.

His new friend's eyes twinkled, "Hm, I wonder how he'll react when he realizes that he's going in the wrong direction…"

**AN: Hey, a little fluffy, young Sherlock and John bit for you today, dear reader. :) Hope this different approach isn't off-putting. I think they'd be rather cute at young ages. Unrelated to any previous chapters.**

**Don't forget to review/comment! :D Maybe John will find the right way to school with your encouragment!**

**Have a great day, and thanks for reading.**

**- TM**


	8. Because We're Friends

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Because We're Friends**

John hated busy mornings.

The hustle and bustle was always unnerving, and despite having lived with Sherlock for a good few years, he would never get used to this racing against the clock. It always started with a screaming violin rant, of Sherlock's own brilliant variation, and from there, events just tumbled into one another, folding over and over again until it left John permanently stuck in its cycle. Every time that violin ripped through the still air, John already felt a headache coming on and an excessively unhealthy need for coffee.

Today, it was a lovely Mozart bit in a different, off-putting key.

John was instantly awake, unfortunately, and he fumbled to get out of bed. He slumped to his closet, yawning and pulling on whatever clothing he could get his hands on. His pace lagged considerably this morning, and Sherlock heard the heavy, sparse footsteps upstairs. The detective played even louder, and he only settled down into a reasonable volume when he heard John's feet patter faster.

He smirked and continued his sweeping bowstrokes along to the squeak of the water pipes, as John washed his face and carried on with his morning bathroom routines.

Washed face, check. Heard the water pipes.

Brushed teeth, check. Heard the spit.

Combing of the hair, check. Heard the clatter of the comb.

Every little task ticking and tocking, as it should, and it actually provided quite a steady beat. Time just waddling by; a meddlesome thing, really, but a tolerable fellow as well. Sherlock was comfortable with these early morning rituals; he always woke up earlier anyways, if he didn't pull another all-nighter. It did put unnecessary stress on the doctor, but Sherlock always figured that he was used to ungodly hours, similar to that of an army regimen.

And John never complained.

That's what he absolutely loved about having him as a flat-mate. Goodness knows how many times the doctor's face was weary with wrinkles, however he always managed to pick up the pace and keep up with Sherlock. And goodness knows how many times the doctor fell into bed past midnight. And goodness knows how many cups of coffee the doctor took to just function properly the next morning.

John stumbled down the stairs, still in his early morning daze, and he blindly wobbled over to the kitchen, grasping his coffee mug tightly.

"Already made you coffee. On the table. Black, two scoops of sugar, no cream."

John's eyes snapped open, and he leaned out of the kitchen with a bewildered look on his face, "You…made me coffee? Why? Special occasion?"

"Let me answer all three questions in one sentence." Sherlock stopped playing, "Yes, I made you coffee because I'm a nice person."

"Nice people don't lie."

"One step at a time, John." He plucked his violin strings, as he placed his beloved instrument into its case. He entered the kitchen only to find John washing out the coffee mug.

He was pensive for a moment, "Well, that's incredibly rude. You didn't drink any of it."

"And how can you tell that?" John humored Sherlock.

"No lip marks around the rim of the cup, and usually, you have coffee on your upper lip after you've drunk…" He took a seat, "You don't trust me, do you?"

"Of course I trust you. I'm just not in the mood for coffee today."

"Now you're lying." Sherlock accused.

"Then now we're even." He smiled and took a banana from the fruit bowl.

Sherlock pressed on, "You know, we have a very busy day today. I've got to go to the bank to pick up some extra cash, then to the police station, then most probably a case, then I gave to feed you, then I want to check my brain samples at the morgue, then…"

He gasped a little, as John shoved an apple into his relatively large, talkative mouth. The detective spit it out quickly, his cheeks suddenly burning in annoyance and embarrassment.

"Breakfast." John replied simply and continued to eat his banana in silence.

"I feel like I'm living with a child." Sherlock sniffed.

"Same here."

"That's fantastic."

"It is, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed, running his fingers through his hair, "You have refused to assimilate into this busy lifestyle by deciding that you're going to sit yourself in the middle of all the movement…"

"There's nothing wrong with what I'm doing."

"Your actions speak for you."

"Clearly. I don't like to complain about my problems, if I can avoid it."

"And that's what I adore."

"I'm glad you approve."

"You are **cheeky** today, aren't you?" Sherlock pulled his coat over his shoulders and affixed his scarf around his long neck. He silently stuck his tongue out at the doctor's turned backside.

John, too, prepared to head out, "But you find this interesting, don't you?"

"I appreciate the banter."

The doctor smiled softly and grabbed their gloves, throwing a pair over to the lanky detective. Sherlock threw over John's coat and opened the door.

"After you."

"Ah, age before beauty."

"Beauty before brains."

Correction, John didn't mind busy mornings with Sherlock.

**AN: Hey, everyone! :) I tried to update a little more quickly this time, and I hope you enjoy this little window into a morning with the two most bromantic people on the planet. No relation to any previous chapter. Already up to the eighth drabble! Ten is quickly approaching!**

**Thanks so much for reading! And please don't forget to comment/review! :D Critiques/criticisms or plain ol' random remarks are graciously accepted. :)**

**- TM**


	9. What I Like About You

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**What I Like About You**

Sherlock likes quite a few things. He'll list a few for you: 3M-6M hydrochloric acid, 3 to 1 bleach, his laptop, anything visceral or viscous, Bach, two-button suits, and hairless cats. Of course, the list goes on, but those are the important ones, for now. They'll change quite frequently based on his disposition, weather, John's disposition... Many, many factors. That's partially what Sherlock likes about himself. He never gets too attached to anything. He can flip or switch them out instantly without it causing so much as a slight discomfort to those around him.

It's especially helpful when he accidentally, sort of, not-truly-on-purpose kills someone.

Ethics and morality do get in the way of work anyhow. Sherlock can't seem to wrap his mind around the idea of John's balance of morality and military gusto. It seems, quite literally, impossible.

John always seems perfectly balanced in his life. He's got his tea-loving, Bond movie fanatic, good-hearted, warm half on one spectrum, but on the other side is a radically different John. A John whose grey-blue eyes turn hard, keeps a taser in his pocket, is skilled in tae kwon do, and has bullet scars all over his body.

It makes Sherlock seem absolutely bland, to be perfectly honest.

No matter how many times John, or others for that matter, praises Sherlock's abilities or glorifies his accomplishments, Sherlock will always feel second-rate to John. John is free from the bondage of work. John is free to do whatever he pleases. John doesn't have an annoying sibling.

That Sherlock is aware of…

Sherlock wants to be just like John, although he never shows it. Sherlock wants to be able to be a perfectly balanced human being, while maintaining his high IQ and deductive skills. Then, he'd truly be a supernatural human. Not even considered a human anymore, they'd have to create his own race.

Anyways, Sherlock has never told anyone of that.

So if you tell.

He'll know.

And his skull will know.

And his skull will have a friend.

Very.

Very.

Soon.

**AN: Quickie update! :) I'm going to be working full time for the next month, so I will be very sparse with my updates, unfortunately. :( My consistent, anon reviewer asked me a few questions that I think I should answer for everyone because they're pretty important.**

**I'm not sure if I want to do more than ten, but if you all really want me to, I will. Even if I'm just writing for you, my anon reviewer, I will. :) I hate it when people pander for reviews/comments to continue stories anyways. It's pathetically unamusing. I could manage a few more, but I am slowly running out of ideas. I'm absolutely willing to accept any and all ideas. (I've accepted one from a review already, I've yet to post it up though)**

**Thanks for reading all you quiet readers, and don't be shy to put in your two-cents! While this little drabble line might not be the most popular in the Sherlock category, it's lovely to write for you all. :)**

**- TM**

**(Oh, and my exams went splendidly, thank you for asking/wondering)**


	10. Dead Winter: Part 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Dead Winter: Part 1**

It was the dead of winter, as Sherlock so affectionately called it, yet there was a lot of clamoring about their small flat at an incredibly early hour in the morning. John was still adamant about embracing his inactive religious side, and he busied himself in preparation for the approaching winter holidays. He had a list of a bunch of food he needed to buy and cook, presents to buy, things to make, and so on and so on. Sherlock took up the role of being a spoil-sport, as he was highly against the idea of practicing such a ridiculously unnecessary event.

"You don't even practice Christianity."

"It doesn't mean I don't believe it in."

Sherlock clutched his beloved skull in his ice-cold hands, and he watched John very carefully, as he took out large, worn, cardboard boxes from somewhere towards the back of his messy closet. Gladstone panted happily and plopped herself next to her loving owner, rubbing his leg with the side of her head. Sherlock's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of shiny tinfoil and large baubles, and he immediately recoiled.

"You are NOT putting that up around the flat."

John huffed angrily, "Let me practice my religion in peace."

"I'm pretty sure past Christians during the early AD era didn't have things like THAT around their home..." Sherlock muttered with distaste.

"I'm guessing you're an atheist." John rolled his eyes, digging out even more sparkles.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, you just seem like one."

"I will speak on behalf of atheists, that's offending, John." He sprawled his lanky body out onto the full-length couch, staring up at the ceiling. He stroked his skull slowly with a large frown pulling down on the his thin lips.

John gave a little sigh yet continued his little Christmas escapade, even giving Gladstone some decorations to hang up wherever she deemed fit. The rattles and jingles that filled the normally still air affected the silent detective incredibly. He gave a bone-chilling glare to Gladstone, as the dog tried to lick his toes. John scooped his pet into his arms just as Sherlock was about to use her as his own form of a decoration.

"If you're going to be a Scrooge, I suggest you go get some air while I finish up."

"You're acting more and more like Mrs. Hudson every day." Sherlock complained and turned into the pillow cushions. He pulled his knees up to his chest, his frown deepening creases into his pale face.

"You're acting like you want to engage in a religious debate."

"Religion is frivolous and unnecessary." He grumbled into the pillow cushions.

"See, I was right, you are an atheist."

Sherlock craned his neck over his shoulder, "If you must know, I was raised a Catholic."

"Out of practice?"

"Very much so."

"Well, you don't have to celebrate Christmas for any religious reasons. Just do it for the purpose of family and friends."

John took a seat on the couch, and Sherlock scrunched his body up even more, resembling a very squished cat. John placed a warm hand on Sherlock's freezing leg.

"Then you're not even celebrating for anything. You'll just be celebrating for nothing but a change in season and because everybody else is doing it.

"Come on, Sherlock. Don't be so moody all the time. I want to spend the time with you." He smiled a little.

"Why not with your family?"

"I'm doing that later. But I'm your friend, Sherlock, and I want to spend this happy time together."

Sherlock muttered something inaudible.

"What was that?"

"I said, fine. Do whatever you want. You do pay half the rent for this flat, anyways."

John burst out into a wide grin, and he patted Sherlock's knee, "If you ever want to release yourself from your boredom, just tell me! I have tons of things I want to get done for ourselves and for my own family dinner later." John hopped off the couch and zipped around the flat, once again, with a loyal Gladstone trekking behind.

Sherlock was still pouting, as he called out, "Do I get any presents?"

"Yes, of course!" John called from somewhere upstairs.

A silly grin curled onto Sherlock's lips. Finding a present for John wouldn't prove to be too difficult, and it would certainly be fun setting it all up...

Oh boredom no more!

He could bear one more Christmas.

"I'd appreciate the alleviation of my boredom, John. What is it that you want me to do?"

"Go out and buy some milk." John heaved a fake Christmas tree upright.

"You're kidding right?"

"Of course I am. I want you to go out and buy some eggnog."

Sherlock felt himself wilt, "You want me to go shopping? That's even more boring than shooting holes in a wall..."

"When you come back, you can help me prepare for dinner. You really aren't a bad cook, and I could use the help."

"You mean a Christmas dinner for us?" His eyebrows raised themselves in a skeptical nature.

"It'll be good, I promise. I have a lot of spot-on recipes." John replied with a silvery foil in his mouth, as he attempted to hang a wreath over the cluttered furnace.

"I _am _good with concotions and things of that sort..."

"Now, go off shopping. We've only got so many hours in the day!" John stepped off his step-ladder cheerily and emptied out another tattered cardboard box.

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head, "You really are too excited for this."

"Then let me be an excited, petulant child."

"As you wish, John."

**AN: GUESS WHO HASN'T UPDATED IN, LIKE, FOREVER? :D**

**Well, for anybody who cares, my research is going along alright. Unfortunately, I had a few other stories written up at home, but I'm not using my home computer right now, so they're saved there, collecting dust... -_-" Anywho, my dear anon reviewer, you suggested some lovely scenarios, which I will happily take on! I'll try to finish them up by the end of the month, but I can't make any promises with my work and everything spinning about.**

**:) I think I'm going to continue this Christmas line for a little bit longer because although it's such an overused topic, writers all interpret it different ways.**

**Sherlock's just in it for the presents, but that's just fine.**

**Again, sorry that I took so long to update! :( Still love you all! Hope you enjoyed reading!**

**- TM**


	11. Dead Winter: Part 2

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Dead Winter: Part 2**

Sherlock's face was smeared with all sorts of unknown messes, and John really had to bite down on his tongue hard to keep from laughing in an incredibly embarrassing way. He also had to restrain himself from needlessly taking pictures of Sherlock's messy face. Although the whole flat was also an absolute whirlwind of a mess, John found it a bit comforting and almost homey in a way. He didn't even have that itching feeling in the back of his head that would viciously nag him to clean it all up.

He liked it this way.

"Do you mind if I play an old CD of Christmas music?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "Sort of, actually. Why don't I just play my violin for you?"

"No thanks." John smiled briefly and popped in the CD anyways.

As cookies and chicken were baking, as soups were splattering, as frosting was mixing, as stuffing was smushed, Christmas music filled the flat. It came in an airy, light-hearted manner, yet it had a powerful, deep undertone of strong-minded holiday spirit. Mrs. Hudson called up to the two, clearly in agreement with the music, saying something about dancing despite "this bothersome old hip".

"Well, it certainly puts Mrs. Hudson in a good mood…" Sherlock noted, tasting a little bit of a sauce before deciding that it indeed needed a little more sucrose.

"It's just feel-good music." John felt his whole face beaming with pleasure, as he unwrapped worn dishes and serving bowls to put the Christmas food on.

"Oh, well don't those look absolutely overused."

"Sherlock, don't ruin my good mood." The shorter man warned with but a finger.

"Should I check them for rust? Any notable wear and tear that would inevitably break apart the whole thing upon touching hot food?" Sherlock peered around John's defensive arms.

"And you were just starting to become tolerable."

"Soup's done." Sherlock flicked off the stove top.

He wasn't having _too _badly of a time with all of this Christmas nonsense. Of course, he'd never admit it to John, but he really was sort of enjoying himself. John had basically forbidden Sherlock from the kitchen a long time ago, and he was pleased to be allowed back. He wasn't able to perform any experiments while John was in the kitchen with him, but it was better than nothing.

The recipes weren't really too bad, either. John hadn't been exaggerating when he said that his family recipes were spot-on. The Watsons clearly had experience and a refined taste in foods. And Sherlock was having too much fun mixing, pouring, beating, spilling, and using the kitchen to its absolute fullest.

"This is a lot of food for just two people."

"We could give some to Mrs. Hudson." John suggested, spooning mashed potatoes into a red and green bowl.

"I believe the Scotland Yard needs food for their upcoming charity."

"Do they? Well, we've certainly got plenty to go around."

"You can give some to Mrs. Hudson, and I'll go down to the Scotland Yard." Sherlock pulled tinfoil over five bowls and juggled them, as he shoved his coat on, "I'll be back to help with everything else in a few minutes."

"Even with Anderson there?"

"He doesn't get any." And he was out the door.

Gladstone padded her way next to John, as she heard his audible sigh. She settled herself down onto his socked feet, warming them with her stomach. John smiled down at the dog and rubbed her wrinkly back a few times.

"No Christmas spirit for Anderson, I guess."

Gladstone barked in agreement.

John gently pushed Gladstone off his feet to take care of everything else in Sherlock's absence. John finished up the rest of the dishes, covered them, and shoved them into the already stuffed refrigerator. Gladstone barked round and round John's legs excitedly, more and more anxious with every passing second. She demanded attention, and John finally gave in and pulled her into his arms. He balanced a few other dishes of foods and managed to stumble his way down the flat's staircases to Mrs. Hudson's residence.

Gladstone yapped to signal their arrival, and Mrs. Hudson was at the door instantly, "Oh, hello there, you adorable cherub!" She kissed John and then Gladstone on the cheeks.

"Hi there, Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock and I were just cooking food for ourselves, and we realized we had much too much. We'd like to offer you some!" He smiled warmly at the elderly woman, as her laughing wrinkles creased with appreciation.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Watson! That's so kind of you!" She quickly patted his shoulder and took the food into her hands, "This ought to last me up through the end of the year! I didn't know you and Sherlock were cooks now!"

"He works surprisingly well in the kitchen."

"Well, that's certainly is a surprise! You're taming him, my dear, and for that, I thank you and the heavens." She let out a sigh of relief and motioned for John to follow her inside.

"Taming" Sherlock sounded a little too drastic for what John was doing. He was basically just doing what any normal person should do; be friendly, be caring, and be a friend. Sherlock never really had experience with such things, and since it was their first Christmas together, John was determined on imprinting something onto the detective's mind. Something that at least promoted the idea of friendships and sociable natures. Sherlock was much too brilliant to just spend holidays alone, contemplating boredom and drugs, as he normally would.

John awkwardly shifted Gladstone in his arms and followed her inside.

"Come, come, dearie! Take a seat over there, and I'll fix you some biscuits and a warm cup of tea. How's that sound, hm?" Mrs. Hudson gave a sweet smile.

"Oh, that'd be very nice, thank you. I'm a little tired from all of this Christmas preparation."

"Ah, yes it's always a hassle, isn't it? I've become accustomed to using smaller decorations and such because of this old hip of mine." Mrs. Hudson tapped her right hip, "At least you have Sherlock to help you! He has more energy than a five year old."

As if on cue, Sherlock popped his head into the room, "John? I'm back from the Scotland Yard."

"Wow, that was fast."

"I ran."

"You didn't even bother taking a cab?"

"It would've taken much too long."

"Well, then I'll have to skip out on the biscuits and tea, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you, anyways."

Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips, "What are you two doing now that you can't sit down for a midday tea break?"

"There's always something, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock smirked briefly, "And besides, John said that he would show me how to celebrate Christmas without all the religious annotations, and I'm thoroughly interested in what he has planned."

"I never said that!" John argued.

"You might as well have."

"At least you're not being angsty and troublesome."

"Where are my Christmas presents, John?"

"Oh God."

**AN: I UPDATED QUICKLY. I WIN AT EVERYTHING.**

**I'm just kidding. :) This was sort of a connecting chapter because I wanted to just show how much Sherlock has changed with the presence of John with him, and how John purposefully tries to inject happiness and meaning into Sherlock's work-oriented life because he's seen how Sherlock can deteriorate into madness or extremely scary habits.**

**And to my anon reviewer, thanks so much for the ideas! They should be enough to tide me over, and I've come up with a few more ideas with the helpful inspiration! :) Thanks!**

**I promise the next chapter will be a little more interesting -_-"**

**And there's always mistletoe...**

**- TM**


	12. Dead Winter: Part 3

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Dead Winter: Part 3**

Sherlock was sat right in front of the fake Christmas tree with his overly long legs awkwardly twisted into some sort of strange sitting position. He clasped his hands together under his chin and eyed John mischievously. John felt self-conscious all of a sudden, as he sat down on the floor next to Sherlock. Gladstone shivered in his arms, also sensing a very uncomfortable tension. He gripped his dog tighter, as Sherlock leaned closer.

"Presents?"

"Sherlock, no."

"But I have one for you."

"You're kidding."

"I am not." Sherlock frowned slightly, "I actually bought something for you, and I'm offended that you would suggest that I would lie about such a thing."

John hesitated, "I'm really not comfortable with this, Sherlock."

"Well, if Christmas isn't going to be about religion for us, then it's going to be about presents." He justified, clapping his hands together.

"I said that Christmas was meant for family and friends."

"Who give each other presents."

"Fine, fine. What do you have for me?"John rolled his half-lidded eyes.

To be honest, he was touched that Sherlock actually got him something. It really wasn't necessary at all, considering that John had been the one to propose that they actually celebrate some sort of winter holiday. And besides, Sherlock wasn't exactly the "gift-giving" type. John was both pleased and worried, and the feelings twisted themselves together into a hard knot that gripped his throat.

Sherlock beamed, as he unveiled a lever behind him.

John was instantly suspicious, "No, Sherlock. I retract my approval. I'm not okay with this."

"Oh please, it's not anything harmful, I swear."

"I don't even want to touch it."

"Pull the lever, John."

"No."

"Pull it!" Sherlock pleaded.

John noticed the sincerity in Sherlock's normally sharp eyes, and he felt himself giving in already. Doormat of a man, indeed, he scolded himself. Nevertheless, he allowed his arm to reach out to the lever, and he pulled it as hard as he could.

The whole room seemed to groan quite suddenly in response, and John felt the ground shake a little. He locked eyes with Sherlock, who seemed to be very content with himself, and he instinctively grabbed onto his hand. Sherlock shuddered at the abrupt contact, but he relaxed his hand soon after, allowing John to hold onto it. Gladstone burrowed her way into John's lap, much too frightened to even utter a bark.

John heard cogs and wheels turning rapidly, pulleys working away, and a whole contraption seemed to come alive right before his eyes. He tried to watch everything work together, as mechanisms worked their way around the flat. A surprising number of Christmas lights lit up, and John noticed that they hadn't been there before. Old toys, that had been Christmas gifts, danced about as puppets, being pulled on by a series of thin strings. Puffs of smoke from the chimney alternated in color, red and white, and a wreath merrily spun on the mantle above it. The normally closed curtains swung themselves open to reveal a brilliantly setting sun and a sky turning dusk.

John stood up slowly with Sherlock, still holding his hand, breathless and utterly quiet.

The Christmas music was the only noise in the background, as the lights continued to flicker and the toys continued to dance.

John turned to Sherlock, clearly touched, "This is absolutely wonderful. How did you manage it all while I wasn't looking?"

"I came back relatively early after dropping the food off, so I decided to set up a little Christmas environment for you while you were downstairs with Mrs. Hudson."

"I wasn't even there for very long!"

"Oh, this took no time at all." Sherlock smiled a little proudly, enjoying the praise, as he glanced over his work.

"You know, this actually reminds me of this specific toy store my mother used to take Harry and I to when we were little."

"Really?" Sherlock replied, intrigued by the apparent similarities.

"Yes. It was one of those places where you line up to meet a Santa Clause and such. The waiting line would twist through marvelous set-ups of Christmas in a mock Santa Clause workshop."

"Would you happen to have a picture of it?"

"Yes, actually I…" John paused, realizing how strikingly similar the flat was now to the mock workshop, "Wait a minute, did you see the picture?"

Sherlock smiled, a little smugly, "I figured that memories were probably the best gift that could ever be uncovered. I can't actually give them to you per se, but I can help you remember them."

"I would scold you for looking through my things, but this really is very nice." John's looks of disapproval melted into ones of shy childishness that Sherlock never saw on his face.

John always acted as a hardened man, someone worn away by war and bloody images. He was still friendly and kind, but in a mature sense. In a sense that he was almost like a father to anyone and everyone. To see John in such a vulnerable state made Sherlock feel nearly responsible for John. He realized how frequently John would put up a wall of indifference and patience towards his mannerisms and doings. How infrequently Sherlock would ever return the favor and the gravity of this one repayment for all of the countless times John would quietly bring down blankets for Sherlock's sleeping body, would get the milk even though he had gotten in the week before, would wake up at the crack of dawn to keep Sherlock from taking more nicotine patches.

Would keep Sherlock sane.

While his work was his only true lover, Sherlock couldn't ignore the fact that John had become something more than just a friend. It was simply illogical and deceitful to do so to himself.

"You're still holding my hand, you know."

"Oh, sorry, I'll let go."

Sherlock smiled for a split-second, "I have a few other tangible things, as well."

"You didn't have to!" John gaped.

Sherlock was being pretty… humanistic. And it was sort of worrying John a little.

"Are you feeling quite alright, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, John. I might as well take this time to thank you and everything instead of having to deal with it later." He disappeared upstairs and came back down with a box wrapped in some of the leftover sparkly tinfoil that John had been using earlier.

John took it into his hands and let Gladstone rip it open.

A few things tumbled out of the box which made John laugh quite suddenly. Sherlock took it as an insult, and he narrowed his eyes in offense.

"Sherlock, don't look upset! I appreciate the gifts, I really do!"

"You're still laughing."

"Because it's endearing! Truly!" John wiped a tear from his eye.

Sherlock had stuffed a Christmas jumper, a jar of strawberry jam, and John's old cane into the box. The jumper still had the price tags on it, and John noticed that it was a little bit more expensive than he took it for. The jam had a seal that said it was "homemade" from somewhere in France. And of course, his old cane had some new developments. It was able to fold up quite neatly, and it had a little hole throughout the middle that seemed perfect for hiding away a saber or a thin sword.

"These are really nice. I still can't believe you had the time to get all of this while I was with Mrs. Hudson.""Well, I actually got the jam a few weeks ago." Sherlock confessed.

John blinked, "Then how did you know you were going to use it as a Christmas present for me?"

"I didn't. I got it for myself initially." His fluffy, curly hair hanged low in front of his eyes, and he seemed a little embarrassed upon the recollection of the intention.

"Aw, then you didn't have to give it to me."

"But you do like jam."

"I didn't even get you anything, yet."

"Oh, you can repay me some other way…" Sherlock's head shot up, and he immediately brightened up with a thin smile across his face.

"We'll see about that."

Gladstone barked nervously.

She and John shared a look of caution, and Sherlock's smile merely widened.

**AN: I'm really dragging this storyline out, geez, haha...**

**:) No mistletoe, yet you guys! But it's coming up, I promise! Obvious relations to the previous two chapters, part of a Christmas story lineage. Hope this isn't boring anyone! (I made Sherlock so uncharacteristically sweet, lawl. But I think I explained it well, right? Right?)**

**Love you all, and thanks so much for reading! Don't forget to review/comment on anything and everything!**

**- TM**


	13. Siblings

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Siblings**

So, Sherlock was wrong.

And it was a mistake he promises to never _**ever **_make again. Facts, data, empirical evidence… never again will he be without them. It's like finding oneself in a dark, damp place with a cold in the middle of nowhere.

A tad bit off-putting, to say the least.

Especially with the uncharacteristically flamboyant attitude that came bursting out in full colors when they had their first meeting. Definitely not expected from the same loins as John. Was it even possible for someone to be **this** polar from him as she was?

"Oi! Are you talkin' to yourself?"

"Harry, shush."

"He's talkin' to himself, Johnny."

"No, he's not. He's thinking."

"Oh, analyzing me, is he?"

"Harry, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down! Get your creepin' eyes offa me!"

"H-Harry! Don't hit him!"

"Don't tell me not to hit him!"

Regular brother-sister, sibling arguing. It was definitely a little more annoying than the Holmes brothers' arguments. This was partly due to the fact that their arguments were via texts most of the time, but that was beside the point. It was rather interesting to see John get immensely flustered with his younger sister. She was actually pretty talented at bothering her older sibling, as Sherlock was with John.

But John was ten times kinder.

Anyways, Sherlock would have to get some tips from Harry on her bothersome techniques. He'd wait until she cooled off. She was definitely more impatient and hot-tempered than John was, and it was amusing to watch her nitpick at her brother in ways that Sherlock would also have to mentally note for later.

"Lookit this! Haven't washed the dishes yet, have you?"

"Those aren't dishes…!"

"What would mum think, huh?"

"It's an experiment!"

_Ah, thank you, John._

"I'm sure it bloody is! Lookit this crap here and there…!"

"Please don't touch that, Harry! Behave!"

At this moment, Sherlock concluded that it was necessary to meet the rest of the Watsons.

Absolutely necessary.

**AN: I returned back to my home computer, and I'm going to upload a little bit that I wrote a little while back. I'll still continue the Christmas line, but I'm just breaking it up a bit! (just in case some don't really like it) This has some relation to chapter 9 "What I Like About You", where Sherlock thinks that John doesn't have an annoying sibling. Might as well prove him wrong for once, right? :)**

**The mistletoe is coming, I promise! Sorry for making you guys wait!**

**By the way, the pictures of the second series of Sherlock shootings are amazing. Handcuffs, adorable Martin Freeman, and beastly Benedict Cumberbatch, obviously. :) No spoilers, but... Reichenbach Falls! D: It's so depressing...**

**Thanks for reading, lovely readers. 3 Comment/review plox!**

**- TM**


	14. Jumping To Assuming

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Jumping To Assuming**

"I **cannot **believe you just did that…"

"Yes, you can. You were there, John." There was a hint of humor in his low voice.

"You said you weren't the athletic type."

"That doesn't mean I'm not flexible."

"But that…was…" John was breathing heavily, unable to continue.

"I need to keep practicing."

"On me?" He squeaked.

"Of course, you're the perfect subject."

"Oh, so that's the only reason why?"

"No, you're also just the brilliant John Watson." Sherlock praised, with a sly smile.

"Part-time, I suppose."

"Let me continue, now that we've straightened that out."

"No, it's going to hurt!"

"It will not. I'm very careful."

John whimpered a little, "Please, I beg you…"

"I won't hurt you, John..." His voice whispered.

"Okay…" Suddenly, John yelped, and there was a loud thump.

"Ah, Sherlock!"

"I didn't even…!"

Mrs. Hudson burst into the room, "Sherlock! Don't terrorize the poor doctor! I can't believe you would force him to…!" Her voice began to slow, as she looked at the scene before her.

John was standing in the middle of the room, quivering. Sherlock was standing on the desk, his dark haired head turned over his shoulder.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" He inquired with a look of surprise.

"I…just thought…"

"I'm practicing my back flips over John. I used to do gymnastics, you know."

Mrs. Hudson felt her throat go dry, and there was an awkward pause. The boys stared at her, waiting for a response, and she sighed, "Yes, of course… You dearies continue that. Just…don't make too much noise, I suppose."

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hudson?" John placed a hand on the old woman's arm.

"Yes, yes, quite alright. You both just gave me a…scare… That's all." She wiped the sweat off her forehead and scurried down the stairs, "I'll just bring some biscuits up to you two."

As she disappeared down the stairs, Sherlock gave John a quizzical look, "What do you think that was all about?"

John reddened a little, as he thought slowly, "Nothing, just forget about it."

"What? Blood is flushing your face…"

"**Forget about it**."

**AN: Hi, everyone! Another little bit I wrote a while ago! (when I get back to my other work computer, I'll upload the rest of the Christmas line) No relation to any previous chapters!**

**Oh, and seems that hearts don't work on this. "3" isn't a three on my page, it's supposed to be a heart. I wasn't necessarily asking for 3 reviews/comments. They're certainly nice to receive, but if you don't want to give them, that's fine, I guess. You're still reading, and I know my story is on a lot of favorites/watches. :) That means just as much.**

**Thanks so much for reading! Love you all! (heart)**

**- TM**


	15. Dead Winter: Part 4

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Dead Winter: Part 4**

**(Slight Warning: MaleXMale kissing at the very end)**

John had been absolutely delighted with their work throughout the course of the day. Of course, Sherlock still left John to clean up the dishes, but that was just fine with him. Sherlock had just texted him, wishing him luck with his own family dinner, mentioning that the Holmes' family dinners usually ended up in something getting broken or somebody hurting themselves.

John told him to give Mycroft a call and wish him happy holidays.

"Thanks." He tipped the cabby and squeezed himself out of the small cab.

The Watsons' home was a relatively modest one; one they had kept for who knows how long. On the outskirts of the city, it was in a somewhat quiet location. Every once and a while a wildly drunk man or a group of rebellious teenagers would liven the area up, but for the most part, silence is what John had grown up with. The house was beginning to sink a little from age, and it seemed in desperate need of a touch up in the outer paint, but it was still home to John. He noticed Harry's bright and bold car already parked in the driveway, so he hurried in with a few presents for his family.

The door swung open even before he had touched the doorknob, and arms wrapped themselves around John's neck, nearly suffocating him.

"H-h-hello-"

"Come on! You're always so late, Johnny! You're making Dad wait!" Harry scolded, however she was still pleased that her brother actually managed to show up for once.

John stepped into the dining room with Harry's arms still around his neck. His father was sitting at the head of the table, as he would, and he seemed to breathe easily again when he saw his son step in.

"I was worrying that you weren't going to show up again."

John smiled, handing him his gift, "Oh, well I made time especially for this, today. You know, work can get a little overwhelming and everything."

His father grew silent, and he shifted his weight in his seat a little, gripping the wrapped gift tightly in his left hand. Harry volunteered to go off and get the food out onto the table. John noted the empty seat next to his father's, and he felt his throat tighten considerably. His father had a hand on the seat of the chair, and John placed his own hand on top of his father's, rubbing it with his thumb.

"I'm sure Mum would be happy to see us altogether for once."

"Yes… She would, she would." His father cleared his throat, hiding any showing of remorse.

"Anyways, John, I've been hearing things from Harry about your work."

"Oh. What things?"

"You're still a medical doctor, right?"

John replied, surprised, "Of course!"

"Well… Harry's been saying that you've become the partner of a certain… 'consulting detective', I believe was the silly word she used."

"It's not a silly word." John felt his throat go dry. He didn't like where the conversation was going at all.

"I'm just concerned about this man's credentials. And she said you even share a flat with him."

"It's not like that, Dad."

"I looked him up. He's an anti-social, asexual, work-obsessed maniac, as the Scotland Yard's website insinuated."

John's eyebrows pulled down, and he realized that his hands had turned into shaking fists, "Did you see his own website? He's really an intelligent man, and he has plenty of experience. He's unconventional sometimes, but I hardly think he's…"

"John, I'm going to be blunt. I don't want you getting killed."

His father was staring down the length of the dining table, his lips tremulous. His gaze was still sharp and hard, but John began to note how old his father was beginning to look. When did so many wrinkles pop up? And when did his father's hands become so thin and leathery? His hair was certainly whiter than what he remembered. His father slowly looked over to him, with soft, nearly unrecognizably old eyes.

"I can't bear losing you, Johnny."

John felt words twist around in his stomach, "Dad… I… I won't."

"But whatever you're doing with that man is much too dangerous for me. I can't help but worry."

"He needs me, though. And I need him. We've become really good mates, honestly."

His father sighed, "Do you really think such a friendship will keep you from dying?"

John grew a little frustrated, "What do you mean…?"

"I loved your mother dearly, but she still met death earlier than we all expected. I'm just saying, from experience, when you grow so attached to someone, it only hurts more when they leave. You can't keep time from doing what it does, and I think that you're running head-long to meet death." His father's mouth grew taut and impatient.

"Dad, you have to let me work with him. He's my friend. I'm not going to leave him, he's never left me. And he saved my life once!"

"He saved you once he put you in danger, didn't he?"

John fell silent. His father reached towards John and held his hand for a second. John pulled away a little more quickly than expected, stood up and straightened out his clothes.

"I… have to go."

His father refused to respond.

"Tell Harry I'm sorry that I couldn't stay for the whole time. I'll probably visit her around New Years." He left her present on her chair and disappeared out the door.

John texted Sherlock with shaking hands:

_Can you call a cab over to my parents' house? I am coming home. – JW_

_Done so soon? – SH_

_I'm not feeling too well. –JW_

_Alright, well there's no point in trying to psychoanalyze you over texts. We'll talk later. Cab on the way. – SH_

The coldness of the night was sly, as it worked its way through the thick fabrics of John's coat and ran its way along his skin. A dog cried somewhere out in the Christmas air. Something was broken. Someone had gotten hurt. And John could never forgive himself for that. Christmases could never be the same. John could never rewind the clocks back to his childhood years. Christmas magic was just simply gone, and his attempts at revitalization were fruitless and vain. Those realizations stabbed themselves deep into the wounds of his battered heart, right next to the ones from his mother's death.

* * *

><p>"I did what you said."<p>

"What?"

"I texted Mycroft to wish him a happy holidays."

"And?"

"Well, he knew that you put me up to it, but he said he appreciated it."

John forced a smile, "That's good."

He flopped into a chair and let his head lean back in fatigue. Gladstone plodded over, as if on command, and snuggled herself into John's feet once again. John kneaded the worried wrinkles out of his forehead, although very well aware that Sherlock was already taking specific notes on his actions.

"What have you found out by now?"

"You don't want to play this game. You want to tell me what's wrong."

"It's just going to depress the mood. Besides, you were just getting into Christmas spirit and such."

The taller man fluffed his hair with a smile, "But we both know that it's complete rubbish. Don't tread lightly around my emotions, John. I think you know me well enough by now."

"I'm uncomfortable around my family. Ever since… well, you know."

Sherlock nodded, fingertips pressed together.

John sighed, "My father's not too fond of your profession because it directly puts me in danger. It's the same reason he didn't want me going to war."

"And this bothers you because…?"

"Look, Sherlock, I know you lack in social skills, but this should be obvious. My father is old. He only has so long…" John felt a familiar knot clench his throat, "I just don't know what to do anymore. Everything is confusing."

Sherlock tried to be understanding. He really did. But he had never been so close to his parents as John had. John was a sensitive ball of wrinkly dogs and sweaters, to put it metaphorically. Everything and anything got to him. That's something that Sherlock always admired, yet recognized as a problem. John cared too much about everyone. So much so, that he sometimes couldn't live with his own choices and his own lifestyle.

"You care so much, John."

"I know. It's annoying sometimes." The doctor shook with silent laughter and invisible tears.

"John, I…" Sherlock approached the situation carefully, "I've watched your amazing social skills, and I think I've learned a thing or two."

"Really?"

"I've learned that not all people are selfish and ignorant, like I am." He paused as John smiled, "And, I've learned that sometimes the right things just fall together. I've learned that I can't control everything. No one can."

Their eyes met. John's outreach was satisfied, for he knew that Sherlock had grasped his hand tightly and would never let go. They were holding hands again. Sherlock's crystal-clear eyes were cloudy with silence and bubbling nervousness, and John was relieved to know that they shared the unsettling feelings. The gravity of the statement weighed itself down on the room, yet it was comforting to know. To know that life was a great game filled with unknown, treacherous ditches and bumps… but that they had each other.

Two radically different people.

Who would run throughout London to find a specific alley. Who would stay up late at night watching Criminal Minds. Who would buy multiple riding crops for corpse experimentation. Who would only eat specific types of jam.

Who, together, would inevitably change everything indoctrinated into a society where nothing was ever constant.

Yet everything always rolled into the same, grounded path.

"That's how I met you. Through random chance."

"Random, random chance." John agreed.

The fire cast its warmth throughout the flat, and John felt his heart begin to beat again.

"You have something on the front of your hair." Sherlock plucked a leafy coil from the other man's short hair and twirled it in his delicate fingers.

"Th-that's mistletoe."

"Ah, then the tradition is to share a kiss."

"…I-I'm not kissing you." John was hesitant.

Sherlock smirked, "I'd be surprised if you did. I would obviously initiate, since I found it."

He leaned his long neck in and quietly pecked John's burning cheek. John yelped instantly in disbelief, and he tripped over Gladstone on his way to flee up the stairs. He yelled something about Sherlock being "so bloody unpredictable and absolutely ridiculous". His cheeks were redder than his Christmas jumper, and he felt light-headed and dizzy. He questioned Sherlock's sexual orientation, as he clamored up the steps, while muttering apologies to Gladstone.

Sherlock reminded him that he was an asexual.

John questioned his actions.

And Sherlock said that it was just what the doctor ordered.

Something unpredictable with a hint of unbelievable Christmas magic.

From the most straight-laced, professional, consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

…

John prescribed ibuprofen for Sherlock.

**AN: Ahhh, end of the Christmas lineage. :) I won't drag it out anymore than necessary! Sherlock and John just needed to realize, through Christmas, that they mean more to each other than they often let on. They're closer than family, and if they wanted to travel down a relationship, it really wouldn't be surprising.**

**Because, honestly, a relationship is characterized through the trust and reliance two people have on one another. And Sherlock and John have both of those things.**

**And awkward kissing scene is awkward. All Sherlock knows is that kissing someone means that you appreciate them greatly, and that it's a sign of great significance in relationships. He says, screw sexual orientations, he'll kiss John as much as he wants and still be asexual.**

**...**

**I'm so sorry, John.**

**(LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLLOOL)**

**- TM**


	16. Socially Feminine

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Socially Feminine**

I have only ever kissed three people in my life. My mother, John, and a person of the opposite sex that wasn't my mother. Kissing isn't something I'm too fond of either. Especially with two peoples' mouths just moving with the other. Spit everywhere, tongues interlocked. It's unsanitary, unnecessary, and a terrible way to show affection, in my mind. For some reason, it's idolized in society, and to be honest, I'm starting to question who the odd one is.

Anyways.

I'm sure the more interesting point of the story is the other person I kissed that wasn't my mother nor John.

I was exactly seven and a half.

* * *

><p><p>

"Ooh, lookit that! Mycroft has to carry along his little brother!"

"Shut your face, Prissum." Mycroft swiftly snapped.

Sherlock swallowed and glared back at the group of boys that were in a fit of laughter. Dissecting dead squirrels, he could handle. Squeezing through slimy wet tunnels, he could handle. He couldn't handle people, though. Sherlock had concluded, from a very young age, that he absolutely hated people.

Every last one.

"You're too close to me again." His taller brother coldly reminded.

Especially Mycroft.

"Mummy told you that you had to take me to school safely. This is far from safe."

"Arse-face." Mycroft muttered.

"Fatty." Sherlock immediately shot back.

"Sod off!"

"Curses don't make you popular, Mycroft."

"Twat!" His brother's voice was rising.

"Arrogant, unhelpful brother of mine, keep your voice down."

"Will you shut it!" Mycroft steamed, finally having enough of know-it-all Sherlock. Why couldn't he just have a normal brother? A less annoying brother, at least? He pulled away from Sherlock quickly and assimilated into a sea of older children.

Sherlock stood awkwardly alone, only his eyes flashing every so often to study peoples' gestures. He continued to stand there, even as people pushed and prodded him. He was still there when everyone went to class. He refused to go into the dingy school, if he could avoid it. He had showcased his vast intelligence to his family, yet they still forced him to go to a stupid primary school for "social skills", as they put it.

A teacher grabbed Sherlock's hand briskly, "What do you think you're doing, young man? Just lollygagging about in front of the school, hm?"

Sherlock blinked, "Well, I was actually left here by…"

"Come along! Classes have already started! Late on the first day…"

There was a sudden tapping, and both Sherlock and the irritated teacher looked back to see who was touching them both. A young girl with wild eyes studied the both of them, digging the toe of her shoe into the ground.

"I'm late too, Ma'am." She piped up innocently.

"Oh for the love of…"

She took her hand firmly and very nearly dragged the two children into the stately primary school. Sherlock glanced over at the young girl with curious, cautionary eyes. She felt the heat of his stare and shifted her gaze over to the new boy. She gave a small smirk and tossed her hair a bit. Sherlock recoiled, surprised, and decided not to make eye contact with the strange girl ever again. He turned his attention to the dun walls of the school and the smoky air of the hallways. As he slid passed his brother and his mates, he stuck his tongue out. Mycroft almost hissed aloud and rolled his eyes.

The teacher's nasally, shrill voice snapped Sherlock forward, "Now then, you two will be serving a ten minute detention! This is a _pre-preparatory _school, and we're not about to accept anything less than perfect!"

"Yes well, differences in independent and public schools are merely that the parents are dense enough to believe that paying money to get into a school makes it better than others." Sherlock proclaimed, taking a seat towards the left-hand side of the room.

The chubby red-face of the teacher made Sherlock smile. She left the room without another word to the two young children who were left to wait for the detention teacher. Sherlock pressed his hands together and rested the fingers on his nose in thought. The mysteriously two-faced girl took a seat right next to Sherlock, still with her odd smile. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he tried to scoot away from her leaning figure.

He cleared his throat, "Do you…need something?"

Her eyes smiled along with a widening grin, "No, I just think you're cute."

Sherlock coughed in surprise, "I'm s-sorry, what was that?"

"I think I like you." She leaned in closer, voice tinkling in sweetness.

"I don't- MMPH…"

She had nearly fallen out of her seat, leaning so close to this cute, curly-haired boy. Her thin lips were upon his for but a second. He instantly pushed her away and spat multiple times. His breathing had quickened, and he hid a rising blush, as he wiped his lips with his sleeve.

"You're different. That's why I think I like you."

This girl. This six year old girl.

Neatly parted, clean, straightened hair for the first day of school. Wristwatch with diamonds encrusted in them. Obviously wealthy parents.

Brunette with sharply honed brown eyes that reminded Sherlock of his own. Lips always in some sort of scheming smile. Intelligent. Observant.

Pale hands. Immaculate. Doesn't like to get her hands dirty. Manipulative. Troublesome. Tight-fitting dress. Red. Attention-lover. Has older siblings from which passed-down clothes were received.

Absolutely.

Feminine.

"Wh-who are you?"

"My name is Irene. Pleasure."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Do you like me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, but I cannot deny that I'm interested in who you are."

"Well, all you have to do is ask, Sherlock." She walked her fingertips across her desk and onto his own.

He wrinkled his nose, "I am…not interested in that respect."

"What do you think of me?"

"You are a six year old girl. You have wealthy parents who are almost always absent and buy you little trinkets to make up for that fact; your wristwatch. You have older siblings; that's why you always search for attention. You're intelligent, despite your manipulative nature. You think I'm interesting because our eyes are very familiar in their acuteness, and you think that you can lure me into being your friend. You want to use my intelligence to your advantage to get to the head of the class, so that you become well-known throughout the school, popular for your physical beauty, and then work your way up the ranks of our education system. I'm sorry to tell you that I do not want to be friends with anyone. I am asexual."

Irene snorted, "Impressive, Sherlock. You've managed to tell me a lot about myself, but I don't want to be friends with you. You flaunt your knowledge much too much because you're always looked down upon. Your brother is much more intelligent, and therefore, you think you have to make up for it. You hate people because you think they don't understand your 'extraordinary' intellect. You have been alone for the most part of your life, distanced because of your intelligence, and so you are socially awkward. Your parents sent you to this school most probably for that reason. You want a friend, but because you've given up on society, you are misplacing that desire in my actions. I am heterosexual."

Sherlock blinked.

Irene smiled.

"Why did you kiss me, again?"

"Because I simply thought you were cute."

"Oh."

"Do you want me to do it again?"

"No, don't touch me."

"Picky-picky."

**AN: This is unrelated to the previous school story that I wrote earlier. I wanted to do a little Irene bit. Of course, this is completely cracky and just me writing something silly for the mere desire of writing something silly. :)**

**I'm avidly re-watching all the old Sherlock episodes in preparation for this fall's new series. I'm absolutely esctatic for new episodes, but obviously upset that there are only going to be three again. :( MOFFAT, WHY?**

**Hoped you enjoyed reading my silliness. Comment/review if you have anything you want to suggest or tell me! :) Always willing to listen. Thanks to the two who sent in some suggestions! Taking them and working on them right away!**

**Allons-y!**

**- TM**


	17. Just Tolerate It

****DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST****

****Just Tolerate It****

"I'm ready to go this morning, Sherlock!" John called from the kitchen.

He was feeling rather alive this morning. He had gotten more than five hours of sleep, no violin playing to disturb him, Gladstone wasn't bothered. It was actually quite peaceful.

John paused. Too peaceful.

"Sherlock?" He called again, "Are you feeling alright?"

"Go away, John." He heard a muffled response come from Sherlock's bedroom.

He was suddenly even more alert than before. Silently, without asking, he tip-toed up the steps and managed to sneak into Sherlock's room. He had never really been in Sherlock's room, for obvious reasons, and he was surprised to see how incredibly messy it was. A whole other experiment seemed to be bubbling away in a corner close to Sherlock's lumpy bed, but it seemed to be unkempt. It was spilling over and staining the wooden side-table along with the vials and test tubes precariously placed in multiple drawers. Curtains were tightly shut, and dusty books perched themselves upon a large, redwood bookshelf. Rows and rows of files lined the molding of the walls, and there were pens in every other free space. Clothes were all kept away in a peeking dresser, yet there were some socks strewn about here and there. Slivers of light managed to squeeze into the room to light up the other darkened corners of the room that John didn't even want to look at.

John cautiously stepped onto a beautiful carpet of a scarlet red and sewn gold, wiggling his toes in wait for Sherlock's awakening.

The lumpy bed creaked slightly, as Sherlock concealed body moved about.

"Sherlock?" John piped up.

"John?" His voice seemed surprised at the closeness of John's own voice. The covers pulled back for but a moment, only revealing Sherlock's grayed eyes.

"Are you feeling alright? I said I was ready to go this morning, but you're still in bed."

"I'd be ready, too, if it wasn't for the fact that there's literally been no calls from Lestrade in the past two days."

John brushed it off, "Well, two days isn't that long…"

"_Two days!_" Sherlock groaned loudly, hiding himself from the rest of the world once again.

"Boredom strikes again?"

"Yes, it should be headlining all across London."

John bravely ventured further into the room, "Don't do anything reckless with yourself, now. Why don't you just update your blog or something?"

"That's a terrible suggestion."

"Alright then. Grumpy, too." John took a step back, "Tea?"

"How dull."

"Sherlock, you're really starting to scare me. Would mindless television suit your fancy?"

The lump that was Sherlock merely sulked and moaned in self-pity of its own boredom. John made his way around the ocean of random nothingness that swamped the bedroom. He very gingerly tugged on the blankets covering Sherlock's face. Sherlock's vacant, wide eyes made John's eyebrows crinkle in confusion. He heaved the thick sheets off and shook his head at the sight of Sherlock's frail, tense arms.

"Now, how many patches are there?"

"Five."

"Five! I-" John had to pause from bewilderment, "Sherlock, are you_ mental?_ I thought you only used those patches when you're on a case!"

"I made an exception." Sherlock breathed every syllable curtly.

"Come on, we're going somewhere."

"No, you can't make me."

John heard a strange wail coming from downstairs, "Is...is that Gladstone crying?"

"I gave her something to induce a fifteen-second acute myocardial infarction. It'll pass over in a little bit."

"What the hell, Sherlock? You gave Gladstone a heart attack?"

"I tried it on myself, but it had no effect seeing as I'm a large organism. So I thought Gladstone would be a viable possibility."

John tore away from Sherlock and raced down the stairs to get to Gladstone. The poor dog was on the floor, breathing at a rapid rate. The heart-broken doctor knelt next to Gladstone, whose stomach promptly thought it would be a good time to eject all food within itself. He muttered curses and attempted to cool Gladstone's sweating body. However, as Sherlock had predicted, the dog's body suddenly stopped sweating only a few seconds after. Gladstone was tentative, as she slowly brought herself up on her four, stubby paws. She sniffed the air around John's catatonic, shocked body, deemed the area to be safe, and then padded off to play with an abandoned chew-toy.

John stomped back up into Sherlock's room, "A bloody heart attack! Have you no sense?"

"Bored."

"Would you get over it?" John yanked the covers off again and fumed in front of Sherlock's calm, pensive face, "You don't think the rest of the world gets bored?"

"Not to the extent that I do."

"What else have you done?" The statement lost its sharpness. John's anger simmered down into pure exhaustion, and he settled down on the bed with his head in his hands.

Sherlock's glassy, half-lidded eyes dipped over John's backside, "Not very much, really. I've done every New York Times crossword puzzle since its inception, I've read through police 'cold cases', and I've looked for my missing riding crop."

"You're missing your riding crop?"

"Yes, I was planning on seeing if physical stress would induce an acute myocardial infarction faster than psychological stress."

"Oh my god- I'm not helping you look for your riding crop."

"Anyone could have deduced that." Sherlock ruffled his own hair with his hands, as he scooted himself up into a sitting position against his bed's backboard.

"Get dressed, we're going out." John confirmed again.

"Going out where?" The messy hair in front of Sherlock's eyes hid his apprehension just perfectly.

"To have fun."

"Like on a date?"

"Oh, please. Come on."

John tugged at Sherlock's long, bony arms. He peeled off the nicotine patches, as Sherlock hissed in disapproval. Sherlock slapped John's hands away and tried to find his comfortable position in the warmest section of his bed. John refused to give up and literally dragged Sherlock out of his bed by his arms.

"You're acting like a child not wanting to go to school!" John huffed, "We'll go out for a nice walk, visit Trafalgar Square, and I heard the National Gallery has some new things up, go get a nice bite to eat..."

Sherlock's mobile suddenly rang, and within seconds, a smile was across Sherlock's face, "Looks like Lestrade has a new case! Come, John, the case awaits!"

And just like that, life seemed to revitalize itself back into his honed eyes. Color instantly returned to his sallow cheeks, and he ran down the stairs and out the door, somehow dressed and cleaned up. John stood in the middle of Sherlock's room, patches crumpled in his right hand, left alone.

He sighed, throwing the patches in the trash, "Why do I even bother, why?" He pulled a proper jumper over his head and took off after the brilliant detective without so much of a frustrated stomp of his foot.

**AN: Hello, readers! :) I've been updating pretty frequently these days yayyyyy!**

**AnyDoctorWho, this chapter has no real correlation with any other chapters. Sherlock is just always on the verge of boredom. Sometimes not even John can alleviate it :( But they're still the bestest of best friends ever! :D They both can tolerate each other! (John more than Sherlock haha)**

**Hope you enjoyed reading! Comment/review about anything or everything! :) Thanks so much for sticking by with me and reading my little blurbs of randomness, heh.**

**- TM**


	18. Relentlessly Clever

****DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST****

**Relentlessly Clever**

"This is the first time you've called me here in _two days_, and it seems you've suddenly changed your mind for no particular reason!"

"He just won't let up about that, will he?"

"No, no, he won't."

"Hey! Pay attention over here, Detective Inspector! You have your number one, intelligent, resourceful man locked up in a stupid, poorly-built jail cell!" Sherlock banged his fists on the bars.

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes, "Sherlock, please stop that. I'm thinking less and less of you, as you descend into childishness."

Sherlock pressed his face as close as he could to Lestrade, "I already think less of you, you inferior being, now let me out!" He growled through clenched teeth.

"You know how long he's going to do this?"

"Forever. Seriously, he won't let up." John's eyes studied Sherlock, as he gripped the bars with ferocious anger.

John half expected Sherlock to transform into a cat and claw Lestrade's eyes out from through the cell's bars. The consulting detective had just picked up the new case, yet he had pushed the legal envelope a little too far this time. Sherlock had been charged under multiple cases of public nuisance, theft, and battery all within the time span of two hours. Sherlock had always used unconventional methods, but this new Detective Chief Superintendent wasn't having any of it.

Public nuisances included recklessly jumping across buildings, blocking traffic to study a specific tire mark for half an hour, and then sliding over cars in said created traffic. Theft and battery were charged on the behalf of one forensic scientist.

Sherlock grimaced, as Anderson walked by with a little smirk and wiggle of his fingers, "Finally put you where you belong, did they?"

"You belong in a primary school, but I manage to keep mature and avoid acting upon that impulse."

"Whatever, you're the one behind bars." Anderson spat in Sherlock's cell.

Sherlock's eyes, as changeable as they were, clearly reflected his sour mood, as they took on a shade of deep, brooding blue. John followed Sherlock's movements with his eyes, as he went through a scheming set of thoughts. Sherlock circled inside his cell, hands clasped the way they always would whenever he began to think.

Lestrade fingered Sherlock's mobile, "You can try to outthink all of this, but you really can't do anything in that cell. It pities me to have to put you there, but rules are rules." The detective inspector walked out through a door at the end of the hall, shaking his head.

John leaned as close as he could to Sherlock, "What are you planning to do?"

"Use you."

"Wh-what?" John sputtered.

Sherlock's hand shot out from inside the cell, grabbing John's arm and pulling him even closer, "You're going to have to do everything I say, in the exact order I say it, now-"

"Sh-sh-sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"John, calm down and lower your voice. You won't get hurt. It's something incredibly simple. I want you to go up to Lestrade casually. My mobile is in his left-hand pocket. Talk with him a bit and slowly walk with him to the radiator in the offices that is near Sally's desk. Flick the heat on to high with your right hand, which should be behind your back, simultaneously asking him for a picture of his newborn child. Somehow correlate that to the chit-chat."

John repeatedly nodded unconsciously.

"Anyways, he will recognize the heat and take off his jacket, searching for the picture, as well. The picture is in his right-hand pocket, so while he's searching for that, offer to help and look in the left-hand pocket. From that point on it should be simple to get the mobile and bring it to me. If he suspects something, pull your hands away just so that the jacket falls onto the floor, spilling its contents. Lestrade will most probably go for his wallet first, and in that time, as you're 'bumbling' about to help, kick the phone to a place where you can get it later. He will notice it is gone, look through your pockets, and then most probably come after me. Go get the mobile and hand it to me later. Do you understand all of that?"

John's head was dizzy with information, "Y-yeah, I think I got it."

"Good, now go." Sherlock let go of John's arm, pushing him slightly towards the door.

John brushed himself off, rubbing his arm in pain. Sherlock's grip had almost cut off the blood circulation of his arm.

"Go!" Came his impatient command, and John immediately ran off to go meet up with Lestrade.

* * *

><p>"Where's the mobile, Sherlock?" Lestrade came bursting into the prison row.<p>

"What?" He replied innocently, sitting on his bedside.

"Your mobile!" Lestrade snapped, "Where is it? I'm going to be in a lot of trouble for this…"

"Oh shut up. I didn't take it. I've been here the whole time, check your security cameras for once."

"I did, and you were doing something sneakily suspicious with John. I didn't find anything on him, but I know you two are plotting something."

John shot Sherlock a distraught look, but Sherlock played it off expertly, "I was trying to get John to do something for me, you're right, but as you can see in the clip, I got very angry with him at the end. He didn't want to it. The poor military man is too bound by the strings of law and justice to do anything against it."

Lestrade eyed the so-called "poor military man" skeptically. John came into agreement quickly, "Yes, I know what's best for Sherlock and for myself. Keeping him in solitude just for a bit longer will teach him a lesson."

"Alright, well I don't have time to play around. Another call-girl has been beheaded, just like the others."

"Soho, correct?"

Lestrade's lips pulled taut and stiffened in refusal to acknowledge Sherlock's correctness. He slowly exhaled, as he walked away from Sherlock's wide smirk, muttering curses under his breath.

Sherlock's eyes flashed over to John, silently asking for the mobile.

"They'll see it!" John whispered loudly.

"Where is it?"

"My right-hand pocket."

"Come here."

"What?"

"Take off your jacket and leave it in the left corner of the cell. The cameras cannot see that one blind spot."

John nodded slightly and obediently did as Sherlock dictated, sliding off his jacket, talking about how hot it was as of late. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's unnecessary banter and swiftly snatched the mobile from the pocket.

"Stand a little more to the right, John."

He sidled over.

"A little more… There, perfect. The cameras won't be able to see my hands from here. You'll just have to stand there for a couple hours."

John groaned, "Why do I have to do this for you?"

"Because."

"Because?"

"Just because."

"I deserve something for this, you know."

"I thought I solved all that at Christmas time."

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Do you want another kiss; is that what you're asking?"

"Oh for fu-"

**AN: Thanks for all the ideas! :) They're very interesting! I'll take on certain ideas/requests for drabbles, but not all of them, or I'll sometimes smush two together. I've certainly managed to push through a lot more little drabbles than I expected. This has a correlation to the previous chapter where Sherlock was finally relieved of his boredom. Unfortunately, looks like he won't be getting a lot of leg-work this time around.**

**Again, thanks so much for the ideas and for reading my drabbles! Comment/review, if you like!**

**- TM**


	19. Transient Life

****DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST****

****Transient Life****

John hated math. He hated maths, and he hated science. It wasn't even the small type of distaste. He really truly hated those subjects to death. He wouldn't even dare to touch his homework when he came back from those classes. He would come millimeters away from failing those classes. He wouldn't even dare come on time to those classes.

The reason he became a doctor is a complicated, long-winded, painful story.

But he's willing to share it with you because he's telling Sherlock the story anyways.

* * *

><p>It began on a particularly hot summer day. Summer had just begun, and the air conditioner would always grumble as it was constantly turned on. He had been playing in the garden with Harry all that afternoon. Their parents had called them in at 6:24 PM exactly. Dirt-covered Harry and sticky-handed John were sat down in the middle of the living room for what appeared to be a very important talk. Their mother was wringing her hands in her lap, sitting uncomfortably on the couch, while their father had his arms around her, smiling thoughtfully at them.<p>

"We've got a surprise for you two." Their father had murmured in a hushed, loving tone, which was very much unlike his normal speaking voice. John and Harry perked up at this, crawling forward a little.

"It's not really here right now, but it's coming very soon." Their mother smiled at their father.

"I hope it ain't clothes…" Harry muttered.

"Shush up, Harry!" John nudged.

"Harry, it's 'isn't', and no, the surprise isn't clothes." Their father sighed.

"Children…" Their mother began, "We're going to have a baby boy."

The questions came barreling after:

"When?"

"A baby boy?"

"Is he gonna be sleepin' in my room?"

"Where is he?"

"Why do we hafta have a baby?"

"What's its name?"

Their parents laughed, and all questions were answered.

"In a few more months."

"Yes, a little baby brother."

"No, he'll be having his own room."

"He's in mummy's tummy right now."

"Oh, Harry, you'll love him, I promise."

"He is not an 'it', John. And we haven't decided on a name yet."

The excitement of the moment overwhelmed the children. And for the next few months, they prepared everything for the baby's arrival. They made the baby paper airplanes, wooden cars, painted pictures, literally anything and everything that they could possibly do.

John took special pride in becoming an older brother to a new member of the family. He drew pictures of what he believed the baby would look like. Pictures of him and the future baby playing football, running down the streets, riding bicycles. He was the most attached to the expectant child…

Then that day came.

It was at 8:36 PM. Their father and mother had been constantly going to the hospital for check-ups on the baby. The news would always be delightful news. Things about seeing different body parts begin the form, kicks, movements… Today's news would be something radically different.

Again, John and Harry were sat in the middle of the living room. Their mother, wringing her hands once again, stiff and tired. Their father with arms crossed and creased wrinkles lining his forehead.

"John…Harry…we have some difficult news to tell you."

"Your baby brother…"

"Is…"

"Not going to be able to come home…"

John stood up, shocked and angry all at once, "Well, why not? Our house is right here, he should know exactly where we are."

Their father approached John and knelt down on his knees, "Johnny, it isn't like that… Your mother had something that we call a 'miscarriage'."

"What's that?"

"It means that your baby brother can't be born."

_Life…_

"What…?"

_Can't be…_

"He's not coming home."

_Possible…_

"What?"

_Because death…_

"Johnny, please, I know it's hard to…"

_Always…_

"**WHAT?"**

_Prevails…_

* * *

><p>There's no need to elaborate on the following details. It pains John's heart to talk any further about it anyways. John leaves it up to Sherlock and you to put the rest of the pieces together. He sits there, staring at the ground, refusing to meet your eyes and Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt for even asking the question in the first place.<p>

John's eyes are vacant when Sherlock dips his head down to catch a glimpse of them.

The loneliness in them haunts Sherlock quite suddenly, and he reaches out to John, offering his arms. John doesn't move. Sherlock takes initiative and moves over to John. Even though John tries to pry Sherlock's arms off, he won't let go.

He will never let go.

**AN: Hi, everyone! :) A little emotional drabble this time. No relation to any previous stories! I always wondered why John became a doctor. Same goes for Sherlock choosing his self-made consulting detective profession, might do that next.**

**Again, thanks so much for the suggestions! All are greatly appreciated! :) Thanks for reading! Comment/review, if ya want!**

**- TM**

**(Oh by the way, amazing Tumblrs RPers of the Sherlock crew, just remove the spaces:**

**ask-sherlock . tumblr .com**

**ask-watson . tumblr .com**

**ask-lestrade . tumblr .com**

**They're extremely witty and in-character. Who knows? Maybe they'll warm up to JohnXSherlock, haha! :D)**


	20. My First Case

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**My First Case**

"John, can you answer the door and tell the person that I'm not home?"

"What? But nobody has even knocked-"

Three short raps came at the door, cutting John off. He sighed, pulling himself up from his laptop.

"Hello?"

"Ah, hello, John. Is my brother in?"

"Um… no, no he's not. He actually left to go take care of…some uh-business." He licked his lips, staring down at the ground.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "I see…" He suddenly smiled, "How was Christmas dinner with Sherlock? The jam and jumper must be to your liking, correct?"

"How did you- oh, never mind."

"He just told me, no deduction there." Mycroft kept his impatient smile, "I _can_, however, deduce that my brother is inside the flat right now. Please let me in. It's very important."

"I-well… I can't really." John stuttered.

Mycroft's smile vanished instantly, and he rolled his eyes, pushing past John and into the flat without another word. He stepped in a stately fashion into the main living room, umbrella end pressed firmly into the ground. Sherlock was facing one of the wall length windows, eyes closed and silent.

Mycroft cleared his voice.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock curtly nipped.

"I'm sure you've been getting the calls from Mummy." Mycroft took a seat in a chair with a sigh, "She's begun to bother me about it, too, now."

"Good."

"Sherlock." Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "Mummy's really furious with you."

"Is she really? I haven't checked my voicemails recently."

His older brother prodded him in the back with his umbrella, "If you don't sort all this out…"

"Yes, yes I know." Sherlock flicked the umbrella end away, "She hasn't been very happy with me ever since I left the house. There's nothing I can do about that."

"Well, you could at least try to reconcile with her. You do know it's almost her birthday, correct?" Mycroft glared with expecting eyes.

"Oh."

"Sherlock, you could at least try to care about the family! I know you're still angry with her about the whole job incident, but honestly…"

John awkwardly cut in, "Um, what job incident?"

"Not now John."

"No, no, tell him, Sherlock. We'll see how he perceives it." Mycroft challenged.

The brothers shared a chilling stare, "Fine. I will tell him."

Sherlock turned sharply on his heel and motioned for John to take a seat. John gingerly stepped through the brothers' quarreling glare, wringing his hands.

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, as he always would, "It all started with the Powers case?"

"You mean the Great Game?"

"No, not your dully written case; the original case."

John blinked in offense, "Okay, well I think I remember you saying something about that, yeah."

"Anyways," Sherlock waved it off, "It was my first 'case'. Although it ended unsolved, it was the deciding factor in my choice to become a consulting detective."

John leaned in closer.

"Carl Powers…" Sherlock's eyes closed slowly.

* * *

><p>"Gettin' ready for a great swim, mates?"<p>

A chorus of people in the stands cheered on the cheeky boy. He gave a quick smile and a few kisses to some squealing girls. He waved wildly to a few other screaming girls and walked past a silently brooding boy at the edge of the stands.

He poked him in the forehead, "Oi, whaddya doin' at _my _game, twat? Who invited _you_?"

The boy twitched a smile, "I invited myself, Powers. Can't wait to see how you fare in the water."

"Homo!" He sneered, knocking him off his feet with a swift kick.

As the boy thudded to the ground, the swim team backed Powers,

"Come on! Let's rile up with a little scuffle!"

"Yeah, yeah, get 'im!"

"Nice warm up, eh?"

They hooted and hollered, as the boy was alternatively punched and kicked. Their coach snapped at them to go get changed and get in the water, pushing them towards the lockers. Carl spat one more time upon the boy, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning.

The crowd pretended the incident hadn't happened and continued to smile and talk about the prime swimmer in a fascinatingly bright light. Sherlock sat on the opposite end of the pool next to his fawning mother.

"Look at Mycroft! Finally doing some sport! Mummy's so proud!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He's not even good…"

People roared and whistled as the swim team returned from the lockers with Carl leading the way. He kept smiling, leaning and stretching out his limbs in preparation. He made a bit of a face, as he climbed up on the starting block. A few of his teammates slapped his back hardily, yelling words of encouragement. Carl nodded blindly, beginning to look a little pale in the face, itching his foot in worry.

Sherlock pulled on his mother's sleeve, "Doesn't Powers look a little ill, Mummy?"

"Oh, would you look at Mycroft!"

"Mummy!"

"Hush, Sherlock! Support your brother!"

As Carl dove into the water along with the whistle, people screamed even louder. They screamed in sudden surprise and confusion. The lean, well-built boy floundered in the water as nothing more than a dying fish. What was going on? Was he just swimming terribly? Carl kept violently squirming and splashing, gasping for air. Adults gathered around, trying to fish Carl out of the water, yet he would shake them off.

The screams quieted themselves, as the body slowly stopped moving. The pool was filled with its own screaming silence, as the dead body of the young boy floated alone in the water, facedown. The lights grew too bright, and the water shone a sickly fluorescent blue, claiming the boy's body for itself. Yet the true victory lay with the shadowy boy. The boy that had slipped out in the commotion with but a smile to leave with Carl's end.

That boy.

Where was that boy?

Sherlock jumped out of his seat, breaking the silence. His small feet pattered across the pool deck, past the dead body and out the doors to catch the killer. Police were already upon the scene. They pushed Sherlock's small frame back, sternly telling him that no one was allowed to leave. A weak woman fainted and a man stood up in an angry tirade, full of tears; the parents.

"Please, you have to believe me! Carl was killed!"

"You insolent boy! To tell us something like this at such a time! Get out! Get out!" The father pushed Sherlock away, hitting him uncomfortably into a stand.

"Let the police take care of this, little boy!" A gruff man patted.

"No! No! You have to listen to me!" Sherlock wriggled in their hands.

"Sherlock! Come back here this instant! Mummy's very angry with you right now!"

"Lay off it, Sherlock! Come on, let's get out of here!"

"No! No! No!"

Sherlock howled, screaming a tantrum like no other. The pool blurred itself, as Sherlock was swept off his feet, kicking and yelling. A thousand judgmental adult eyes bore themselves into Sherlock's weak determination. He had to embrace that he was that freak, in that one moment, as sharp eyes and tongues tried to cut him down. He had to stand in his place, this place that was not his own, and battle the stinging criticism. Even as his own family would do the same. He was closed off from the case, from the pool, from the society of adults. From everything conventional.

So. He had to be unconventional. He had to prove himself.

* * *

><p>"I guess it must've been a real success to prove the Carl Powers case to be a murder, then?"<p>

"Extremely." Sherlock wistfully smiled, "Anyways, that's all there was to my decision, really. As you can tell, Mycroft and my mother weren't exactly helpful."

Mycroft tapped his foot, "At least get Mummy a card."

"I'll send her something."

"If I hear any complaints…"

Sherlock waved him off, "Go, go, fine, fine." He shut the door behind Mycroft with a relieved sigh.

He glanced over his shoulder at John, still with the unbelievable story on his mind. Sherlock stood up a little straighter, with a little more pride in his step. John shook his head, in disbelief.

"I still can't believe you could solve cases like that when you were little?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly sure how Powers was killed or who Moriarty was at the time. I just knew that it wasn't coincidental, and that the boy had something to do with it."

"Still brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

"Thank you for the ego stroke, John." Sherlock smiled briefly again.

**AN: Sorry it's been so long since I updated! -_-" Been busy with a few birthdays and projects here and there. Work never ends, gahhhh! Well, the only relation this chapter has is with the previous one when I decided I would go into why both John and Sherlock became who they were. I don't think Sherlock was at the crime when it happened, but I feel like it'd make more of an impact if he did.**

**Oh and did you all hear? Series 2 has been pushed back to 2012! D: It's sort of depressing, but as you can see, writing and acting scripts take some time. So does camera work :( I understand their pain... I know series 2 will be great though! We can expect wonderfully great things!**

**Continue on with the waiting!**

**- TM**


	21. Things About You

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST**

**Things About You**

Things that fascinate John about Sherlock are his imperfections. It's not that he's trying to be rude or cruel to Sherlock by pointing them out, but he rather likes to see that Sherlock can be human at times. Like humans, Sherlock can cry, he can scream, and although John hasn't seen this particular side of Sherlock yet, he's almost positive that Sherlock can love, as well.

While the emotional, psychological, and mental imperfections make John even more curious about Sherlock's internal mind, it is the physical imperfections that get him every time. He once spotted the tiniest scar on Sherlock's ear, and he nearly broke his tea mug in utter ecstasy. Sherlock was absolutely horrified at John's reaction, and he refused to speak with him for a week after that. He quite nearly fainted when he found a small mole on his chest, but that's beside the point. John soon learned that he had to keep his inner-most reactions quite suppressed and subtle.

It's confusing and difficult for Sherlock to understand why John gets that way when he finds the imperfections he tries to hide so well, and to be honest, it frustrates him that John manages to discover them in the first place. It is kind that John tries to comfort Sherlock on this matter; however the detective is adamant about being perfect for his flat-mate ever since that one time…

"Sherlock, you look like you're in deep thought. Should I be concerned?"

"No, no, it is not a scheming type of deep thought."

"I don't worry about that. I worry about how you're mentally disputing with yourself."

"It happens often, John."

"Yes, well I guess there's nothing I can do about that." He paused, "I'd still like to know what you're thinking about."

"You."

"I'm flattered."

"Mm."

Sherlock's eyes scanned John's laughing wrinkles, as he smiled at Sherlock. How amusing it must be to have no worries about any imperfections, Sherlock mused. All John ever, and will ever, needs in life are his morning tea or coffee, strawberry jam, his favorite woolen jumper, and Sherlock's company. He likes to have at least seven hours of sleep, but he can usually bypass that if necessary. The same goes for Gladstone. Normally, Harry likes to keep Gladstone for herself (being that she **was **the family dog, and it **was** necessary to share her), and he has to deal without Gladstone for extended periods of time.

Sherlock, on the other hand, needs to have everything in its proper place or else he goes completely haywire and anxious. If his skull is not where he last put it, he becomes furious at either John or Mrs. Hudson for moving it. If his experiment is not exactly the way he last toyed with it, he becomes so moody that he will not eat two out of the three meals necessary in a day. He's a perfectionist, he'll admit that, but he'll never admit that he possibly, sort of, has a slight, tiny, miniscule bit of OCD. Even though it is possibly, sort of, maybe a slight, tiny, miniscule bit true.

So, in conclusion, John admires Sherlock's imperfections, while Sherlock admires John's ability to oversee his own personal imperfections.

…

You should see them try to choose clothes for one another.

**AN: Hey everyone! :) This chapter is sort of a silly nonsense one, unrelated. I think I got inspiration for this chapter from something else I read, but I'm afraid I can't remember who wrote it :( If any of you recognize the idea and know who wrote it, please tell me! I'd like to give her/him due respect.**

**Thinking about taking a bit of a hiatus quite soon. How would you all feel about that? Would that be okay? (I've got some things going on with school/APs/blahblah, you guys don't have to care haha :D)**

**Love you all, and thanks so much for reading! Comments/reviews are always appreciated :)**

**- TM**


	22. Author's Update

**AN: Update on This Series**

Well, first things first: I am so terribly sorry that I have been MIA and have been on this extended hiatus. There've been a lot of things going on with my family and my work and blahblahblah all of that good stuff.

With Sherlock's second series rounding the bend quite shortly, I am going to try and force myself to get back into my writers' groove.

The Sherlock ask blog on Tumblr that I posted about: ask - sherlock . tumblr .com is where I've been most active (did you all figure it was me? :D) And there I've been playing about with Sherlock specifically.

Again, I'm so so sorry that I didn't inform you all and left you hanging :( I know what a terrible feeling it is to feel abandoned by an author, and I just want to give every single one of you a hug.

I may be starting this up with the New Year (it'll be my resolution!), but I can't be definitive.

I'll see what I can muster up, and hopefully I can get more written! Again, I don't know a specific number that I will write up to, but I'll keep trying.

So sorry, lovelies :( I hope you'll forgive me!

- TM


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